


Witness Protection

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Duty, Grief/Mourning, Journalism, M/M, Minor Character Death, Police, Romance, Violence, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 16:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7940959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When whistleblower Mordred Wallingford comes to him with the scoop of the century, Merlin Emrys doesn't suspect that his life will be turned upside down, but suddenly he's thrown headlong into a game that uproots him from everything he knows and holds dear. The only man standing between him and death, between him and the helpless void, is DI Arthur Pendragon, a man whose uprightness Merlin considers a guiding light in this new existence he's got to navigate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witness Protection

**Author's Note:**

> (i) Epic amount of thanks to Crideon, who beta'd this, who, with her know-how improved this story a bazillion times. Thank you for being there for me.  
> (ii) An equal Everest high heap of thanks goes to Puckboum, who made beautifully kinetic art for me. I love it vast and vast amounts. Here's the link if you want to have a better look at it. [Art](http://puckboum.livejournal.com/28335.html). I suggest you hightail it there, because Puck's works is brilliant.

[ ](http://s845.photobucket.com/user/pouletroti/media/banner%20LD1327820.jpg.html)

Messenger bag slung across his chest, tall Styrofoam cup in hand, Merlin deposits his helmet on top of the filing cabinet and cruises across the newsroom floor. On his way over he passes harried colleagues flying from one corner of the room to the other, computer positions manned by furiously typing reporters, and interns carrying stacks of copy in their arms. Here and there he tosses in a hello, or a quick wave of his hand, but not many return it, as busy as they are with whatever story they're chewing on lately.

Merlin's office is a narrow space that runs the length of the building's corner. It has small windows overlooking the city and two desks sitting one close to the other.

Freya's already sitting at hers. She's on the phone, but when she sees him, she cradles the receiver between cheek and shoulder and waves her hand. “Hi,” she mimes. And then she rolls her eyes and adds. “Muirden. Bore.”

Merlin smiles sympathetically, deposits his bag on the floor, turns his swivel chair around and sinks into it. While Freya talks on the phone, Merlin turns on his laptop. As it boots, Merlin checks his e-mails on his phone. On the ride over from work, Merlin's collected some forty of them. Most Merlin dismisses by their subject lines; others he skims. One's from an angry photographer who maintains Merlin's double-crossed him by not mentioning him in the Housing Scandal story as per their agreement. Given that none of the stories on the subject have ever carried his by-line, Merlin has no idea what this bloke's talking about. “One of Credence's fuck ups, must be,” Merlin murmurs as he starts pummelling an answer at his keyboard.

Merlin's not nearly finished, when Freya says, “Had a good weekend?”

“If you're asking me whether I got laid,” Merlin says, frowning at the screen, “the answer's almost. But then a lead called and I had to go meet him. Needless to say I don't think I'll see my date again.”

Freya snorts. “Merlin, so dedicated to his job, he'll give up good sex.”

Merlin sends off his email and turns the chair around. “Ah, ah. You know how it is. Better to keep on the trail when all leads are in place.”

“I know.” She arches an eyebrow. “I know, swear.”

“I mean running this story could really make a difference. It's not just about providing news to a curious public.” Merlin's aware they do that too, but it's not the whole point. “It's about denouncing crimes so that people will think twice before committing them. Hopefully, that'll make the world a better place. And my lead was scared enough. If I didn't get him to talk then, he'd have clammed up.”

“I know.” Freya makes a sympathetic noise. “I know how that is.” She eyes her own phone. “Still, I worry about you. I mean high stress job and little fun at home.”

“I cope.” Merlin moves papers from one side of his desk to the other. “Plus, I've got you.”

“We were over a long time ago, Merlin,” Freya says with a kindness fit to shatter bones. “That's not enough.”

Heat creeps up the back of his neck. “I know what you mean.”

“Gwaine loves you, you know.” Freya sends him a very intent look. “He's not just inviting you round to the pub every Friday night just so you can go over the perks of the job.”

“I love him too.” Merlin does. Gwaine's a loyal friend. One who's been there for him through thick and thin. “Just not that way.”

Just before Freya can answer him, the door opens and Gwaine himself peeks in. He doesn't show any hint of having overheard. “Oi, Merlin,” he says, with an excited spark to his tone. “Gaius wants you in his office. He's got some kind of marmalade dropper for you.”

Merlin pushes his eyebrows upwards. “What kind?”

“Ah--” Gwaine smirks. “I'm not allowed to talk about it, but if you follow me, you'll know more.”

Merlin can't say all the secrecy around this doesn't tempt him, doesn't make him want to dig. He takes a hurried sip of his tea and pushes to his feet. “Lay on, Macduff.”

They don't cross the newsroom, but bypass it by way of service stairs and a large white-washed corridor flanked by windows.

“So can you give me any hint at all as to what this is?” Merlin asks, as he follows Gwaine down the passageway. “Any giveaway?”

Soles skidding, Gwaine comes to a halt and turns around. “Yeah, it's something to do with the Bureau. They've invested quite a lot of funds in this case and have come to Gaius for a collab.”

“The Bureau of Journalism, eh?” Merlin knows they've been responsible for the uncovering of many a scandal. Ever since they've been up and running their track record has been admirable. Merlin almost wishes his were similar. “I suppose Gaius is very excited about this.”

“Like a schoolboy.” Gwaine leans against the wall and cants his hips. “You should've seen him this morning. He was positively giddy.”

“I'm actually having a hard time imagining that.” Merlin lets his mouth crease into a smile. “But if it's so important, why doesn't he have you on this? I mean you're the one who nearly won the Pulitzer. Would have if not for the politics behind it.”

“Merlin--” Gwaine makes a noise of discomfort low in his throat.

“Oh come on. I've never pegged you for a humble one.” Merlin catches Gwaine's gaze. “And we both know you're bloody brilliant. So why aren't you on this?”

“Frankly,” Gwaine says, “I've got my hands full.”

“Oh, pull the other one.”

“Look, you're good. You're amazing.” Gwaine slaps Merlin on the back. “You're the youngest of us all and have already unearthed a couple of big stories. I recommended you to Gaius, not that I needed to, because I knew this lead was made for you.”

“Gwaine, I--” Merlin ducks his head. “Thank you but--”

“Look,” Gwaine says, his hand finding a perch on Merlin's shoulder. “I know what you're thinking, but the truth is I think you're best suited for the job. And have no fear.” Gwaine holds both hands up. “I'm not asking for your eternal devotion in exchange.” He flashes Merlin a wry smile that puts a crease or two to the corners of his mouth. After a head toss that makes his hair dance, he adds, “Though if you were to tell me I'm the best journalist to have ever lived, then I wouldn't object.”

Merlin's heart constricts in one hefty spasm. “And best of friends.” Gwaine is, Merlin knows that without a shadow of a doubt.

Gwaine dips his gaze. His mouth quirks and he exhales. When he looks up again, his eyes are shining again and his shoulders pull back a notch. “Now call me handsomest of journalists and we have a deal.”

“Always humble, eh?” Merlin says, falling back into the routine of their dealings. They'll have to talk, true enough, but this doesn't hurt anyone. Hopefully, it'll set Gwaine at ease. Which is what Merlin wants for him.

“Well, well. You know me.” Gwaine shifts his weight from side to side, then he lets out a long breath and adds, “As much as I'd love to stand here listening to you sing my praises, we should get moving. If I make his guest wait, Gaius'll have my hide.”

The door to Gaius' office, which usually always stands open, is now shut. Gwaine knocks, but doesn't wait for an answer and looks in. “Gaius, I've got Merlin here for you.”

“Good, good,” Merlin overhears Gaius say. “Let him in.”

As he walks in Merlin, takes in the usual clatter of Gaius' desk, which is buried in papers and lacking in a computer, then his gaze slides over Gaius himself. Today he's gathered his white hair in a ponytail which skirts the top of his collarless shirt. His shirt though is far less colourful and more modest than is his wont. Merlin wagers that's because Gaius has got someone important over, someone who means something to him, someone who must be faced with his serious side. As a matter of fact, a guest perches on the chair opposite him, his legs out, his hands folded together between his knees. He's a young man roundabouts Merlin's age, clean shaven and wide-eyed, his hair softly framing his face. When Merlin takes a step in, the young man stands, reaching a hand out.

Gaius says, “Merlin, this is Mordred Wallingford, Mordred, this is one of our top young reporters, Merlin Emrys.”

Mordred smiles, though there's a strained quality to his expression. “Mr Emrys.”

“Sorry if I kept you waiting.” Merlin shakes Mordred's hand and steps back with a sheepish smile.

“No, not at all.” Mordred shifts his weight from side to side. “I was talking to Gaius here. I was entertained to say the least.”

“Since you've got the introductions covered,” Gwaine says, with a nod to the corridor, “I'll get back to my duties.”

When the door closes behind Gwaine, Gaius points Merlin to the sofa resting under the window. Mordred flings himself back down. When they're all positioned, Gaius starts talking. “I wanted you here, Merlin, because I think you should listen to what Mordred has to say. I think that it's of the utmost interest.”

As a signal of acquiescence, Merlin widens the span of his hands.

On his perch, Mordred stiffens, the muscles of his throat working as though he's forcing a swallow. “I suppose you'll want me to repeat my story?”

“If you please,” Gaius says.

As he speaks, Mordred focuses on the back of his hands. “I'm a specialty registrar at St Saviour Hospital. At the moment, as part of my training, I'm doing research at a clinical trials unit.”

“I'm sure you've got a lot of work on your hands.” Mordred looks quite young and Merlin hadn't pegged him as a fully-fledged graduate. If he's doing that kind of work, he more than is. They don't entrust confidential jobs to just any newcomer. That means that in spite of his age, Mordred has achieved quite a lot already. “My father's a doctor so I know about all the trials and tribulations of the profession.”

“Oh, yes there are many of those.” Mordred moistens his lips. “But these... these things I've found out are not typical of any normal run. See, as part of the data gathering team, some irregularities have come to my attention.” Mordred lifts his gaze to Merlin's. “I couldn't smuggle a hard copy out, I'm not allowed, so you'll have to take my word on this, but it's enough to make this the medical scandal of the century.”

Merlin slides forward in his seat, the muscles around his mouth stiffening. “And what would this scandal be?”

“All drugs intended for distribution in Europe must get EMA approval.” Mordred weaves and unweaves his fingers as he explains.

“Or MHRA approval,” Merlin says.

Mordred's eyes flare a notch. “You know your drug test practices then.”

“There was a time back when I was eighteen when I thought I wanted to be a doctor just like my father.” He had grown up with the notion that he would become one, that he'd help people and save lives the way his father always did. He never doubted that was what he wanted to do till his interests veered elsewhere. “I went through first year only to realise it was not my calling.”

“I see.” Mordred relaxes his posture. “Well, then, so you know the ins and outs of drug testing.”

“Only broadly speaking.” Merlin never finished after all. He only barely got started.

“Well, manufacturers must go through a series of hoops to get their drugs licensed,” Mordred says. “They must prove that their product causes prospective patients the least harm possible and that the side effects are within the acceptable range.” He looks to Gaius as well as Merlin before proceeding again. “To be sure they meet these standards all medication is trialled.”

“There was that case recently--” Merlin nods. “The BBC covered it. A trialled drug killed at least one testee and left others seriously ill.”

“Yes. Now that specific drug was a FAAH inhibitor meant to act on the body’s ECS receptors.” Mordred takes Merlin in stride. “And while there were some risk factors involved in the administration of it, the trial itself was above board.”

Merlin hunches lower, elbows on his knees. “You're saying this one wasn't?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

Merlin slips a small note pad and pencil stub from out the back pocket of his jeans.

Blanching, Mordred says, “I thought Gaius agreed.”

Eyebrows knitted, Merlin looks to Gaius.

With a loud exhalation Gaius says, “This is to remain strictly off record.”

Merlin pockets pencil and notepad. “Okay, all right.” This is weird as far as journalistic practice goes. You should have fool proof evidence of everything you state or claim. But in some cases, when witnesses are very scared, it's something that has been done. Either that or you'd never have a scoop. At least it's a starting point. “Off the record.”

Having studied Merlin closely, with keen attention that widens his pupils and darkens his eyes, Mordred continues. “What I'm talking about is more than an ordinary glitch, or even reckless testing. There's this drug, its lab name is Lethine. It's supposed to be a suppressant.” Mordred crimps his lips. “A magic suppressant.”

A chill creeps up the back of Merlin's head. So that was why Gwaine wanted him on this. “Are we talking about the same drug that the far right wanted to use on magic people?”

“Yes,” Mordred says, shoulders lapsing. “Yes. Officially, it's specifically meant to be used to suppress out of control magic in patients with low immune defences whom magic might damage further or those with scarce restraining abilities who might inadvertently hurt others. The far right would like the drug to be licensed so it can be used to suppress magic altogether.”

“I heard it discussed.” Merlin's got many friends covering politics and they've all mentioned it to him. They'd done so with a urgency in their voices, with dilated eyes, and quick gestures. When Merlin reported the topic to his family, the mood quickly veered south. He's since learnt not to mention it and to hope for the best. After all, his parents have worried enough about him to last them a lifetime. “Some thought it was all rather speculative because the drug isn't even on the market yet.”

“That's true.” Mordred keeps his face set hard. “But Malagant Pharma really wants that license. See, I had access to all of their statistics and the truth is they're not publishing their negative data. Seven trials were performed comparing Lethine against a placebo.” Mordred gazes at Merlin and Gaius to make sure they're on board with his explanation. “Only a single one, carried out on thirty patients, had an incontrovertibly positive result.” Mordred smiles but it's wan and forced. “That one was published too.”

“I'd like to read that study,” Merlin says, knowing he needs all the facts before he plunges headlong into this. That's the ABC of journalism.

“I'll provide you a copy.” Mordred inclines his head. “The problem obviously is not that one, but the six trials performed on three hundred additional patients. As far as the effectiveness of Lethine is concerned, their results are disastrous.” Mordred's cheek flickers in a spasm. “More than half the patients who had Lethine suffered from severe side effects.”

“How severe?” To run with this, Merlin needs to get a rough idea of the extent of the damage. Some light symptoms wouldn't make for much of a story. They'd be concern raising, and he would certainly look into it, pass the news to lobby groups so more light could be shed into the matter. But he wouldn't publish it. He'd just solve this on the down low. “What kind of side-effects are we talking about here?”

“Pulmonary hypertension, rhabdomyolysis leading to kidney failure, atrial fibrillation, thoracic haematoma, hallucinations, fainting, coma, death.” Mordred loses his voice; it becomes a croak, in his chest.

A shard of ice stabs Merlin's spine. “And I gather that's not a statistical one off?”

“No.” Mordred seems prepared for that question. He starts again on the subject with ease. “Out of three hundred patients, twenty died. Needless to say the percentage is comparatively small at seven per cent, but even so EMA wouldn't approve the drug if the tests results were published.”

“So they buried them,” Merlin says, without even needing to guess the outcome. “Why not erase the records though?”

“They probably think they're unassailable, that whoever's protecting them will do their job right.” Mordred takes a sharp breath that flares his nostrils. “The point is I think the rumour is true.” Mordred shakes his head and dabs at his brow with the heel of his hand. “They don't care about the results because they want to commercialise Lethine. And they want to do that because they think they can persuade the government to use it on all magic users in time.”

“Activists and lobbyists will oppose that,” Merlin says, even if he doesn't believe that himself. He's developed a low opinion of everyone even remotely connected to politics. Idealism in not for journalists, not with all the stories they unearth.

“Yes, they will.” Mordred's gaze unspools into the distance. “But who will listen to them? In the long run? The discourse on magic users already skews against them; suspicion is rife because they're thought of as...” He purses his lips; his brow gets deep furrows that make him look older than he is. “Overpowered. If it gets out, we're allowing use of a pharmaceutical product that will kill people, not all of them, but a fair number of them. And we know who this med is aimed at. This drug is a weapon.”

Gaius searches Merlin's gaze.

“Have you any solid proof of this?” When Mordred scowls, Merlin puts his hands up. “I believe you. It's not that I don't, but I've learnt to my cost not to run a story until I have all my bases covered.”

“I can't be caught.” Mordred bows his head, shakes it, and knits his hands together. “I can't risk it. I'm too afraid.”

Merlin shares a look with Gaius. To Mordred he says, “But you're positive you've stumbled upon the truth?”

“Yes.” Mordred lifts his head. “Yes. I am.” He wets his lips. His nostrils quiver. “I'm not lying. I have no reason to. In fact, I've got every reason to try and protect magic users. I am one.”

Merlin's chest warms and he speaks over Gaius. “I'll take this.”

“You'll publish this?” Mordred's voice pitches higher and he smiles wide.

“I can't. Not now.” Merlin really doesn't want to have to say this. Not without reams of evidence. “And we can't run to the police with this because it's your word against theirs.”

Mordred's shoulders collapse. “Oh.”

“But I can look for proof until I have a story I can run with.” A story that will not only involve big pharma, Merlin thinks, but politicians too, one that will unearth the truth about politics' involvement in discrimination.

“You will.”

“Yes.” Merlin's decided. This story deserves being looked into in the name of justice. Besides, it hits too close to home for Merlin to ignore it. He couldn't live with it if he did. “I promise.”

Mordred starts on his feet. “Thank you. I--” He turns around then vaults back in place. By that time Merlin's on his feet too and Mordred pumps his hand. “Thank you.”

When Mordred's gone, Gaius gives Merlin the eyebrow. “You know how dangerous this is going to be, don't you, Merlin?”

“You can't tell me you didn't want me to dig into this.” Merlin pulls his shoulders back. “You knew I would from the moment I heard what Mordred had to say.”

“I do want you to bring this to light because this story should surface,” Gaius says, sucking on his teeth. “That said, I don't want you to run any risks.”

“I won't.” Merlin widens his eyes and puts on a smile. “Swear.”

“I don't believe you.”

“You know what this would mean for magic users, Gaius, don't you?” Merlin tightens his hands into fists. “You know that the less this kind of thing is talked about the more likely persecution becomes.”

“Yes.” Gaius wings up an eyebrow. “And I know how dear this cause is to you. I'm just urging caution.”

“I won't do anything stupid.” Merlin doesn't intend to let this go, but he has no intention of being reckless either. He's been at this a while. He can do it. 

“See to it that you don't.” Gaius reaches for a heavy book whose tender cover creaks when it's opened. “Now, run off, and leave me to my readings.”

Merlin grins. “Before summer's out, you'll have the scoop of the year.”

 

****

The white neon lights illuminate the corridor evenly, picking out the starker tones of the wall paint and the coloured buttons of the vending machines. The one at the end flickers for a moment but it reverts to steadily shining. Merlin's barely made it past the hallway's middle section, when he pats his lab coat's pocket and stops short. “Shit,” he tells the others in his group. “I've forgotten my pen.”

“Can't you get it back tomorrow?” Cenred asks, arranging his mouth in a smirk. “I'm not sure security at level two will let you back in.”

“It wasn't an ordinary pen,” Merlin says. “It was my grandfather's fountain.”

“Oh if it was granddaddy's.” Cenred snorts so loudly a whoosh of air makes it out of his throat and nostrils.

“I remember it,” Mordred says, in an even tone. “It was practically an heirloom. Look, I'll walk you back. Explain how things stand to the guard.”

“Thank you, Mordred.”

“Well, I for one won't wait on you.” Cenred stretches his shoulders by extending his arm in front of him. “I worked eight hours on those bloody immunoglobulins numbers, I'm in for a beer.”

The other rota doctors agree with Cenred, if more politely, and, after having flashed their identification at the guards, disappear past the luminescent steel doors. Mordred and Merlin retrace their steps, walking along a sterile grid of corridors and up a flight of stairs. Each landing has a barred window overlooking an empty courtyard in which puddles of rain shine. Each corridor has sets of doors guarded by code pads. They're open now, but they will be sealed once all shifts have ended. Merlin's checked that. On the second floor they meet the first security guard. He moves his weapon across his shoulder. While the guard looks fixedly ahead, Mordred explains Merlin's story.

The security guard says, “Your shift's over, I can't let you through.”

Merlin says, “It was an item of sentimental value, please.”

The guard sets his jaw. “No. Come again tomorrow.”

“I don't have shift till the day after that,” Merlin says, smoothing his features into a mask of nonchalance, social niceness. “If I don't get my pen back now, someone else might take it.”

“Not my responsibility.”

“Look, if I lost that pen I'd be losing some three hundred quid.” Merlin slips his wallet out of his jeans pocket. “I'll give you a hundred if you let me in.”

The security guard doesn't react, no muscle of his twitches, his gaze doesn't engage Merlin's.

“Oh, come on, mate.” Merlin winks. “You'd try to get it back too if it was you.”

“You have ten minutes.”

Merlin places two crumpled banknotes in the man's hand and waits for him to punch a code which allows access to the labs sector. He nods at Mordred before passing through the open door. Hurrying along a corridor similar to the one the floors below, he passes a series of hatches split in the middle by rebars.

At at least ninety feet in diameter, the lab is large, and free of windows. In their place air locks fixed at regular intervals and at a height of seven feet ventilate the area. Stainless steel shelves run along the length of the room while tables of the same material shimmer in the central space. Lab equipment and glassware spreads across the polished counter-tops. Bright circles of light pool from above and illuminate a set of slim white-framed computer screens.

Activating one, Merlin angles the screen. The words 'password requested' flash on the monitor. Merlin knows his password won't work. As a rule, they deactivate them sixty seconds after a researcher's shift has ended. Having flashed a quick look at the door, Merlin toes off his shoe, bends down and retrieves a short strip of paper. He places it on the worktop and, fingers quickly tapping at the keyboard, copies the string of data into the required field.

Sweat pooling down his face, he re-reads his entry from top to bottom. When he's sure he made no transcription mistakes, he presses enter. A welcome message appears on the screen in flashing grey script. Humming under his breath, Merlin types a quick command and selects a host of files catalogued by number. Given that the data presented is beyond his temporary clearance, Merlin has no idea what those cyphers refer to. The files are too many for him to open one by one and hope to find what he's looking for. “Never mind,” he mutters to himself, inserting a thumb-drive into the USB port.

Turning the paper round, he starts copying the new authorisation passwords. He's entered the last one, when a red light flares up and the system jams. Feeling his pulse at his fingertips, he taps away at the keyboard again. The camera lights flash and go off; he gets a second error message. Mouth dry, hands damp, he steps back. What the bloody hell did he do wrong? All right, all right, he needs to trace back his mistake.

Footsteps sounding outside the door, Merlin's heart nearly stops. He can't go there and check. He might garner too much attention to himself. If the guard enters the lab, he'll see the working computer and put two and two together. Even if Merlin doesn't move, doesn't get noticed, the guard at the door might check on the room. He's been too long in here. “Right,” he taps at the screen again. The warning stops flashing, but the files don't copy on his thumb drive. “What else?” He bites his lip. “Come on, what has he forgotten?”

An eye on the screen, one on the door, Merlin rakes his hand through his hair. He advances, steps back, throws his hands up in the air. Breathing in mouthfuls till his lungs are dizzyingly full, he lets his eyes grow hot, go gold.

Strings of files copy themselves onto Merlin's flash-drive. When the files finish pasting, Merlin snatches the flash drive away from its slot and pockets it. With a few touches, he turns off the computer, and exits the room. When he rejoins Mordred and the security guard on the lower floor, Merlin flashes a fountain pen. It's slim and black, shiny looking. It's really not worth more than fifty quid, but with its golden shine it looks the part. With a nudge of his weapon, the guard nods and signals Merlin and Mordred onwards.

In silence Mordred and Merlin move down the corridor. They don't hurry but their pace is brisk. They acknowledge the lower floor guards with smiles Merlin admits are tepid and, after a last check, they spill out onto the night. The courtyard is wide, plastered with grey chequerboard flagstones. More security personnel man this area; these guards brandish semi-automatics that shine glossy in the dark.

Mordred and Merlin share a look. Shoulders up, back tense, they tread towards the metal gate facing the street. The cameras mounted on top of them turn with their movements, clicking left and right, then zooming all the way back again. This place looks like anything but a lab. Fort Knox is more like it. When Merlin and Mordred approach the gates, they swing open. They slink past them, their footsteps sounding in unison. Even now they don't rush it, don't go any faster, but troop down the street at normal speed. Doing so takes all of Merlin's control, makes him sweat and go light headed with lack of air, but he manages. Somehow so does Mordred.

After they've turned the corner, they sight Merlin's car. It's sleek with rain and the windscreen is fogged up, but it's never looked more enticing than it does now. With the press of a button, the locks snap open and Mordred and Merlin duck into it.

“Have you got it?” Mordred asks, his voice rough with emotion.

“Yes.” Merlin shows him the flash drive. “I have. But I had to use magic to get it.”

Mordred smiles, tightness lingering around his mouth and eyes. “Well, that's what it's for. Getting out of scrapes.”

“Yeah.” Merlin thinks it can serve higher purposes too, but he isn't about to debate that. Philosophy has no place now. At the moment he frankly only wants to scram. “Yeah.”

“So we drive to the police, right?”

Merlin fishes a tablet from out of the glove compartment. “We've got to check I've got the right files,” he says, activating the tablet and linking the USB drive to it via a cable. He passes the apparatus to Mordred and says, “Check it out.”

As Merlin eases his car away from the curb, Mordred starts fingering the tablet. He frowns at it, looks for the documents Merlin's copied into the file tree. Eyes on the road, Merlin hears him say, “This is it, Merlin. This is proof enough.”

Merlin merges onto a wider lane. It's late, the night dark, unstarred, unappealing. Traffic is sporadic, with only a few cars cruising past theirs, around theirs, so he doesn't need to pay a lot of attention to what he's doing. “Good, we're calling Gaius then and going to the police.”

He's turned into Fentiman Road with Vauxhall Park on one side and red brick houses on the other, when he notices the headlights. He accelerates just a notch and the car in his wake does the same. Merlin's stomach sinks like a lead weight, cold laps at his heart and at his head. Damn. Shit. He tries the same move again, foot ramming down the pedal, and the following vehicle speeds up. When Merlin slows, the other car does too. It lags behind theirs, travelling at the temperate pace of a Sunday morning outing. But Merlin knows well that that's all a feint, an illusion, a provocation even. The vehicle tailing them is, in fact, a big saloon of German make, sleek and shiny, likely to have more horse power than the car Merlin borrowed. Its driver is only pretending to be cruising along leisurely; in fact, that banger is capable of tremendous bursts of speed. “I think we've got a problem,” Merlin tells Mordred even as he keeps the other vehicle in his sights.

“Huh?”

Merlin sets his jaw. “We're being tailed.”

“What, where?” Mordred's head snaps to the side.

“Don't move,” Merlin hisses. “Don't give away you know they're there.”

Hand clutching the steering wheel hard, Merlin bypasses the next junction and takes Miles Street. Suspensions jumping together with his stomach, he passes under its brick bridge, and so does the car on his heels. The gallery is low-ceilinged and the carriageway narrow and all Merlin can see is the glare of the other vehicle's high beams. He hates the darkness, the threat it poses, but he makes himself steer the wheel with easy, steady movements; he ignores his wish to tear it out of there, do something stupid. When he turns into Wandworth Road, the car turns in the same direction as his. Fingers tapping restlessly on the wheel, hums passing his lips, he continues going at twenty miles per hour, playing the part of the unconcerned driver until he's past the traffic lights. Then he floors it. His tyres screeching and the engine rumbling, the car gains speed. While the wind hammers at the its windows, it hurtles down the street, careering down them in a headlong race. 

But so does the car tailing them.

“Merlin,” Mordred says, turning around in his seat, “do something.”

“I am.” Merlin is, in fact, laying his foot flat on the accelerator. It feels as though he can't push it any further. “I bloody am.”

“Well, that's not enough.” Mordred pales. “They're gaining on us.”

A low convertible overtakes them and pops up right in front of Merlin. To avoid it, Merlin swerves right into the oncoming traffic lane. A double-decker speeds Merlin's way. Wrenching the wheel the other way around, Merlin makes a turn for the proper lane. As the side of the car impacts the bus, metal screeches and sparks fly. The impact sends Merlin's car careering into a row of parked vehicles. Steering wide of them, Merlin saves them from a collision, but the impromptu jerking manoeuvre tosses them. 

Arms and legs taut as he braces for impact, Merlin loses control of the vehicle, feels it speed on with out any input from him. Somehow, however, they don't crash. The car loses a little of its momentum, and Merlin manages to tear into the central lane again. The move's slowed them down though and the car pursuing them bumps Merlin's rear end.

“Merlin, use your magic,” Mordred says.

“It doesn't work like that!” Merlin half shouts that, but even so he tries to reach into himself. Fear cuts deep under his skin, moves in dark masses that gnaw at his soul. Under those layers his magic bubbles, pushing his blood into fast coursing, his heart into a mad tempo. In a wild flail, Merlin grabs its ends and pulls and his magic shimmers inside of him, grows and grows till it chokes him. As his eyes scald to a glow, the speedometer's needle pushes towards the ninety-miles-per-hour mark.

At this speed it's hard not to barge onto oncoming traffic, to keep to the road. By the time he hits Vauxhall Bridge, the tyres barely stick to the asphalt and wind batters at the side of the tilting car. Steering wheel held in a choke hold, Merlin zigzags through the traffic.

He's so busy not rear-ending anything, that he doesn't see their pursuers catching up with them until they impact their side, sending the car flying sideways and onto oncoming traffic. The bulk of a huge black 4X4 comes at him. Merlin yanks at the wheel. With a crash, the Jeep hits their side, but Merlin, minus a hub-cap, steers clear. He's lost speed though. The chasing car has come up level with theirs on the passenger side. In a glint of reflective glass the window comes down.

Merlin bites at his lip and flattens his feet on the accelerator. He glances sideways for a second. The muzzle catches the moonlight. The shot isn't loud, more like a crack than like the roll of thunder. Mordred slumps against him.

“Mordred!” Merlin yells, needing to get a response from him, some acknowledgement that he’s all right. “Mordred!”

Silence answers him. A crash follows. The other car hits his full on the side, driving it into the other lane and past that towards the bridge's rail. Merlin brakes hard, and the chassis screeches, but it doesn't help, as they don't slow down. They speedball forwards. He frantically jerks the wheel, but all he does is angle the car. When the pylon comes up, Merlin throws his hands up and his magic outwards.

The crash is deafening. He feels the shock up his spine and in his teeth. Pinpricks of pain cover his skin and his breath falters for all the hammering his heart does. He sucks in air, his breath coming out low and raspy, in a groan, a choke. He scrabbles for purchase, slickness under his hands. Blind, unseeing, he blinks a few times until the night coalesces into an explosion of whites and greys. When he focuses, he can make out his surroundings piecemeal. Mordred slumps against him, his body lax, blood, black and sticky, pooling around him. Past the swell of the air-bag he can see a swathe of street, the asphalt shining bright with oil, the hard lengths of street light poles. 

“Mordred.” Merlin shakes the man, then takes his pulse. There's no heartbeat. “Mordred!” Willing the life to course into Mordred, Merlin leans over, put his ear to his mouth. No breath issues.

“For the love of God, breathe!” Merlin thumps Mordred's chest but it doesn't lift. Merlin isn't sure he remembers how to do CPR or mouth to mouth. He places both hands on Mordred's chest and presses. Releases. Nothing, no movement, no reaction from Mordred. He rests his ear on Mordred’s chest again, listening. Again nothing. He sits back up, his gaze focusing outside the vehicle for the first time since they crashed. In the middle distance he makes out the shape of three men advancing. They're swathed in dark coats, their faces in shadow. Guns are in their hands. Now he sees them, he cannot look away. The men prowl forwards, picking their way over rail debris, shattered pieces of pale concrete. They point their guns at the smashed windscreen. A shot ricochets and the car slumps on one side, what was left of the windscreen showers down on the dashboard. Merlin knows he can't stay in the car. He can't. And yet if he leaves, there's nothing he can do for Mordred. But if he stays, there's a chance there might be. What if it's not too late?

After another shot heat blooms in Merlin's shoulder and when he touches his hand to it, it comes away bloody. His head snaps up and he sees his pursuers. They're at closer quarters now, chests framed by the windscreen's mounting, but still far enough away Merlin cannot make out their faces. Still, if one fires now, Merlin knows he's dead. With one last look at Mordred's limp form, Merlin unhooks the flash-drive, wraps it in a handkerchief, and buries it deep in his jacket's pocket. Then he turns round, and kicks at the window. Pain shoots up his leg, but the glass doesn't yield.

A bullet whistling right above his head, Merlin kicks out again. This time the glass gives in places and cracks into a spider web pattern. Heaving his feet up, he pounds at the window again and again. It shatters at last with an outflow of shards. They gleam like diamonds, like particles of moon-dust. Doubling over he clears them with his elbow and climbs through. Gashes open on his palms and knees, but he bites down on the pain and drags himself forward.

The moment he's out, shots rain after him. In a dash, Merlin climbs the rail. Bullets hailing around him, he straightens. Before unlocking his muscles, he looks to his pursuers. All three of them aim their weapons at him. There's no cover whatsoever between him and them. Merlin turns and looks forward, at the sky line, at the opposite bank, at the night lights. He dives.

 

****** 

The wind breaks his bones and chills his marrow. He's stopped bleeding, he thinks, but his body is battered and bruised. The gashes on his hands throb dully and he shivers so much his jaw aches with it. So as not to lose body warmth, he hunches in on himself. It won't help drying his clothes, which are still heavy with dampness, but he's presenting less of an open front to the night gale. Stamping his feet and blowing on his hands, he takes a moment to centre himself and then slinks out of the alley and crosses the street.

The car horn beeps too late for Merlin to notice it and the car bumps into his knees. Heartbeat going sky-high, Merlin whips his head round.

“Watch where you're going!” the driver shouts, sticking his arm out the window and waving a fist. “Bloody drunks.”

Merlin raises both hands in apology, and when the driver calms down, he legs it to the other side of the street. On trembling knees, he gets to the phone box. He opens its door. Empty cans and crisp packets, faded leaflets and animal droppings litter its floor. Hoping to hear a signal, Merlin lifts the receiver. He's lucky. The phone's in working order. Holding the receiver to his ear, he roots into his sodden jeans pockets for coins, finding a few. Hoping they'll last, he starts feeding them into the phone.

The call tone rings five or six times before Gaius picks up. “Hello.”

“Gaius, it's me,” Merlin says, leaning against the phone box's door. “It all went to shit.”

Noises filter through the line; Gaius says, “I see. Can you talk?”

“I don't know.” Merlin studies the street around him. It's so late foot traffic amounts to almost zero. A homeless man with a long beard and patched-up jacket rifles through a wheelie bin. A late night rubbish collector mounts the step at the back of his van. Otherwise no one else is in the immediate vicinity. Their headlights spearing the night with shards of light, only cars roll by with a certain frequency. “I chucked my mobile.” After the plunge he took into the Thames, it would have been done for anyway. “They might be on me though.” Merlin's no James Bond. He has no idea how to make sure he's not being followed. “For all I know they could be lurking in the shadows.”

“What has happened, my boy?” Gaius says, using words he hasn't used to describe Merlin in a very long time, at least since Merlin got the job at the Daily Beacon. “You're making me very nervous.”

“Our friend.” Merlin doesn't dare name Mordred. Not that he thinks this random phone can be tapped, but there are other ways to listen in on conversations. Magic for one. Arcane technology for another. Merlin's not about to risk it. “He's dead. They killed him.” Merlin presses his hand to his mouth, bites on the fat of his palm. “I was right there and they killed him.”

A deep breath sounds in Merlin's ears. “They found you out? They killed him?”

“Yes.” Merlin doesn't think one can put any other spin on what's happened. “Yes.”

“All right.” Gaius mumbles something incomprehensible as he moves about. “All right, my boy, we need to keep calm and think rationally.”

“I hardly know how do that.” Merlin's vision blur's with tears. “Not after tonight.” He bites his lip bloody. “Not after...”

“I know, I know.” Gaius' voice smooths into low, fatherly tones. “But if we don't stop them, we won't get out of this.”

Facing away from the street, Merlin shuffles round in the narrow box and huddles in on himself. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply until his lungs hurt, and says, “I know. I know.”

“I have a friend,” Gaius tells him. “He's with the police.” He hums softly. “We need to get you to him.”

“Um, right.” The homeless man smacks his hand against the phone box's side and Merlin starts, heartbeat jumping sky-high, then turns his face away from him. This isn't something he wants anyone to overhear.

“Where...” Merlin leans his head against the partition. The glass is smudged with both grime and condensation, starred with dirt, but he's past caring. “Where do I--” He wants to ask where he goes from this, how he copes, but he doesn't want to worry Gaius. “How do I get in touch with him?”

Gaius must have moved the receiver about because Merlin can hear a lot of background noises but not his voice. “Meet me at the old place,” Gaius eventually tells him.

If Merlin had the heart, he would smile. But he can't even rejoice in the prospect of potential safety. He supposes he can't believe in it, and even if he did, it wouldn't matter much somehow. “I... I will.”

“M--” Gaius bites down on the word. “Look after yourself.”

“I will.” He sighs into the receiver. “For you. I will.”

***** 

By the time he reaches the house the sky is cornflower blue with streaks of white matting and precious little pink left at the edges. Though it warms him, the daylight finds the cracks in his skin, the hollows in the canvas of him. It makes him stand out, offers no cover, and he'd like nothing better than to fade back into the darkness the night afforded.

The house is exactly as Merlin remembers it, grey bricks with ivy-covered trellises either side of the door, big white sash windows with roller blinds obscuring them.

Merlin scans the area. Close to the zebra crossing, a school bus stops to pick up a gaggle of children with rucksacks on their backs. A young woman pushes her pram down the street. No one else crowds it. The coast seems clear. Merlin can't be positive though. Anyone could be lurking in the shadows.

There's a small lane between Gaius' house and the next. From previous visits Merlin knows that it ends at a pale wooden fence and that beyond it there's only a rather overgrown garden all dark weeds and cracked tiles. Still, someone could be hiding there, waiting for Merlin to appear. Or they could be skulking just round the street corner.

“Now that's paranoia,” Merlin tells himself. “Just do it. Just do it.”

Looking left and right, Merlin pushes off the pavement. He staggers across the street and up the steps to the door. Instead of sounding the bell, he knocks.

For a spell nothing happens. The air holds still. Then a car horn sounds in the street, robbing Merlin of a sequence of breaths; a plane fends the sky, marking it in white parallel stripes. In the distance a tube train passes, the reverberations echoing underfoot. The door opens.

“Merlin,” Gaius says, pulling him in. “Good god.”

Wanting to get off the street, Merlin takes a step inside and stumbles, totters right into Gaius.

Gaius puts his hands up and catches Merlin before he topples down. “Merlin, you're bleeding.”

Merlin's knees feel like they're cracking under him. “It's nothing. I... was shot at.”

Gaius gasps, touches him all over, mapping him for wounds. He inventories Merlin's body for gashes, and bullet holes, cracked bones, and bruises. 

Before Gaius can give himself a heart attack, Merlin says, “They only grazed me.”

“I should get you to hospital all the same.” Gaius puts his shoulder under Merlin's.

“Can't.” Merlin breathes in and out through his nostrils. Fights light-headedness. “The ones who killed Mordred are pharma.” The corporation behind Lethine is so big it must have plentiful resources. “What if a conniving doctor sells me out?”

“Still, Merlin.” Gaius pats him down again. “I don't feel confident without getting you a proper check-up.”

“Can you see anything other than shallow gashes on me?” Merlin makes pleading eyes at Gaius. “That's because I'm fine. It was a close call but I'm fine.” He pauses, a feeling of doom weighing heavy on his heart. “I won't long be if the Malagant people find me.”

“Right, you're right.” Gaius pales. “You’ll need to tell me everything before we decide what to do next.”

Gaius walks Merlin into the kitchen. Because his legs don't work very well, his muscles hurt and his clothes have stiffened on him, Merlin leans on Gaius more than he would like to. As Merlin crashes onto the nearest table, Gaius puts the kettle on. Merlin brings him up to speed as to the latest events, tells him what he couldn't on the phone. He goes into detail about Mordred's death, the hit men who caused it, and his own hairs-breadth escape.

Passing him a mug, Gaius says, “So you dove?”

“Right into the Thames.” Merlin turns his head and coughs into his palm before taking a long sip. Though he knows it's some kind of green tea, Merlin doesn't register the taste of it. He only feels its warmth work through his body. “It's something I'd rather not try again.” The density of the water, its chilliness, the strength of the current were a lot to fight against. “But I was lucky, I could swim down river and climb out of the water. Well, eventually.”

Gaius shakes his head. “If I'd known how dangerous it was, Merlin, I would never have assigned you this story.”

“Oh, Gaius, you did nothing wrong.” Merlin's voice is thin and raw. “The world needs to know. It can't... Mordred died for it. It can't be buried. We must publish it.”

“And we will, Merlin.” Gaius works his jaw, sucks on his gums. “We will, but we'd better make sure you're safe first.”

Once Merlin's warmed up by the tea, Gaius helps Merlin into the bathroom. Merlin showers. The jet is powerful, plentiful, hot. It works heat in his body and density to his bones. In the steam, under the nozzle, he no longer feels like he's about to keel over, as if he's a puppet whose strings have been cut. Momentarily, he's an ordinary man again, indulging in an ordinary action. When he's dry, Gaius bandages his shoulder and cleans out the glass from the cuts on his hands and knees. He lends Merlin trousers, a shirt and a jumper, and though they don't fit well, at least they’re dry and don't reek like the river.

A squat double-storey building sandwiched between a car retail shop and the low end of a public garden wall houses the police station. A notice kept in place by a black pin advertises the opening times of public enquiries. A short, narrow waiting area is empty of all human traffic. Behind a rather rickety-looking desk on which a computer sits, stands a uniformed constable. He's ruddy-faced, balding; even his eyebrows are thin.

Gaius and Merlin march to him, “We need to see DCI Thomson.”

The constable lifts an eyebrow and goes back to tapping something on his keyboard.

“It’s quite urgent,” Gaius says, as the man ignores him. “If you don't believe me, tell him Gaius Lekarz needs to see him.”

The constable fingers a packet sitting on his desk and puts a peanut in his mouth. Merlin's sure he'll just continue munching on, effectively shutting them out, but in the end he addresses them. He tells them to wait where they are, not to move at all, and leaves the reception area.

A row of low backed plastic chairs lines one of the walls. Merlin sits with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

Gaius, who takes the place next to him, says, “Alator is not only a good friend of mine, but also an excellent policeman.”

“Mm.” Merlin rubs at his eyes. There's grit in them and he wants to do nothing but close them, wishing he could have slept for a bit before leaving Gaius’ home. “Yes.”

Gaius squeezes Merlin's good shoulder. “Courage, Merlin, courage.”

Before Merlin can say he doesn't have any, that he's got no buoyancy of spirit left, the constable returns. “Come with me,” he says, leading them down a corridor and into a rectangular room.

The window at the other end of it is dull with grime, as is the floor. The desk and chairs are old and deeply scratched, with thin legs jutting at not quite perpendicular angles. A digital recorder with wide buttons sits on the worktop. “DCI Thomson won't be but a minute,” the uniform says, before leaving Merlin and Gaius to it.

Merlin and Gaius have just sat down, when a man in shirt sleeves enters. He's middle aged, balding, and there's a no-nonsense air about his features, the way he's scrunched up his eyebrows and tightened his mouth. “Gaius,” DCI Thomson says, “I must say, I wasn't expecting a visit at work.”

“I have reason for it, Alator,” Gaius says as both he and Merlin stand up again. “I need your help.”

Alator's eyebrows join together. “You'll have to be clearer than that.”

Gaius exhales and dabs at his forehead. “This is Merlin Emrys, one of my best journalists at the Daily Beacon.”

“I see.” DCI Thomson places his hands on his hips. “And how is that a police matter?”

“Last night, someone tried to kill me,” Merlin says, doing his best to sound rational about it. “I was shot at.” Though Merlin's aware it's only a scratch, his shoulder burns enough to prove it. “The person I was meeting was killed.”

DCI Thomson's eyes narrow. “Okay, all right.” He takes a chair and sits on it. “I want you to go into detail.”

Merlin tells him about his night. His voice doesn't come out steady at all times and at one point he has to close his eyes and take a moment to breathe. He's always been able to tell a story, to string up facts, but right now his ability to do that has evaporated, and he repeats things more than once, makes a mess of clearing up details.

DCI Thomson nods, leaves the room. When he comes back some ten minutes later, he says, “It bears up. We've found a corpse on Vauxhall Bridge.”

Merlin's mouth opens. “You didn't believe me?” His expression twists. “Of course you didn't.”

DCI Thomson ignores that tack and says, “I must ask you. Have you any proof corroborating your story?”

Merlin roots in his pockets and empties his hand on the table. “That's the flash-drive I told you about. I had it on me when I dove into the Thames. If anything can be salvaged, it's on there.”

“We'll have an IT expert look at it.” DCI Thomson doesn't pick the drive up. “In the meanwhile we'll escort you to hospital to make sure you're fine.”

“And that I'm not lying.” Merlin can see why. If he was running a story, he'd check his sources too. “You'll find that I'm not.”

Merlin pushes off his hands so as to get up, but Gaius stops him with a hand on his elbow. “Alator, you must make sure Merlin is protected.”

“And I will.” Alator bows his head. “But I can't bypass procedure entirely.”

This time Merlin stands. “You have to promise me.” He places a hand on the table and leans forward. “You have to promise me that you'll see to it that justice is done.”

Alator meets Merlin's gaze. “I swore an oath to defend civilians and punish those who do them harm. I’ll do my job.” He lifts his chin. “The question is will you help me do it?”

Merlin lets his shoulders sag. “Yes.” His throat is aflame still with the bitter taste of the river, he swallows. “Yes.”

 

***** 

Light spills over his face and warms it from chin to forehead. It plays around the lines of his bones, seeking them out with its heat. It cradles his torso and tickles his lids. It kisses his forehead and his cheeks and his chin. When Merlin opens his eyes, he realises the source of it must lie behind him, because only three white-washed walls surround him. No pictures hang anywhere; no furniture is present barring a grey cabinet bearing no ornaments. He lies in a bed with side rails that are up; tubes hook him to a drip. “I remember,” he says to himself, the memory of the preceding night surging before his eyes. “I remember.”

“I didn't think you'd forgotten,” a voice says, startling Merlin. There’s a man sitting beside the bed. He's blond, sharp-jawed, blue- eyed. A fine six o’clock shadow peppers his chin and cheeks, his upper lip. “That usually only happens in films.”

“And you are?” Merlin sits up, a wash of panic stabbing at his brain, heart and guts. What if this man is a Malagant killer. What if he's here to do away with him. After the night he's had, he wouldn't put anything past those people, not even the most far-fetched of scenarios. “I have the police on speed dial.”

“DI Arthur Pendragon,” the man says, showing him a warrant card he slips from out his jacket. “National Crime Agency, Protected Persons service.”

Merlin supposes the warrant card looks genuine enough, with all stamps and signatures in place. This man must be it. At such short notice a killer couldn't have got such a good fake. Besides, if this man was a sicario, then he'd have already put a bullet in Merlin. With Merlin sleeping like the dead, he had all the time in the world to do it. God, but Merlin's become paranoid. He wishes he hadn't, that that hadn't been the first thought that sprang to mind, that a more normal reaction other than panic had surfaced. Merlin scrubs a hand down his face. He can feel the stubble, the cracks at the corners of his mouth. The pillows are thin but manage to be lumpy all the same. With a groan, he stacks the two he has one on top of the other and sits up. "I suppose that answers why you're here.”

Pendragon stands, enters the adjoining room and comes back with a glass of water. “While you were out, the SERIS people verified your story.” He hands Merlin the glass and watches him drink. “Beginning from now you're under witness protection.”

“Witness protection?” In spite of working in investigative journalism Merlin's never had to deal with a real case involving it. “Are you serious?”

“Completely, an investigation has been opened,” Pendragon tells him, taking the glass from Merlin and placing it on the stand by the bed. He sits down. “Forensics are looking into the USB drive you gave DCI Thomson. They've recovered enough data to determine you were probably right in your hunch. But not enough to make an arrest.”

“But there's time, isn't there?” Merlin's no expert in the workings of IT forensics, but he's sure that, given the right kind of attention, they'll be able to retrieve more proof. “And then nothing can stop a trial from taking place.”

“You're an optimist, I see.” Pendragon studies him keenly, with a cock of his own head. “Malagant are a big corporate name. If they don't know who you are yet, they will shortly. Till they're all convicted, or exonerated, you're in danger.”

“The wheels of justice move slowly, yeah?” Merlin pulls the covers up, grips at the hems of it, sighs. “I see.”

“I believe in justice, Mr. Emrys.” Pendragon straightens, so that muscle bristles from under his shirt. “I also know that it can only triumph if all pieces are in place.”

“And I'm one such piece.” Merlin's mouth twists sideways. “I see.”

Pendragon smiles; the gesture puts creases to his mouth and makes him look much more human, much less the portrait of stern police authority. “It's about believing you’re doing the right thing.”

“I want them to be stopped. I want them to pay.” For Mordred and for all those that stand to suffer from those test trials. He can't if he isn't alive to tell the tale. Merlin turns his gaze to Pendragon. He needs to take a chance on trust. “What should I do?”

“You're not safe here,” Pendragon says, looking around. His face switches back to a taut mask that advertises his wariness, the ease that had momentarily flown from him a few moments ago replaced by steely professional reserve. “I'm moving you.”

“You're moving me?” Merlin arches an eyebrow. 

“If you want to stay alive, yes.” Pendragon hands him a bunch of clothes. They're not Merlin's, but they're clean and look solid. “Put these on.”

Tossing the blanket off, Merlin swings his legs off the bed. His hospital gown is badly fastened at the back and slides down his torso as he stands. He vaguely remembers changing out of Gaius’ borrowed clothes. He knows a nurse gave him pills and hooked him up to an IV drip of antibiotics. Of course by then he'd been completely out of it, groggy with fatigue, slow with aches and pains. As he pulls off his gown, he realises that those aches are still there. They're particularly keen at his shoulder and knees.

Pendragon drops his gaze. “I would've left the room if you'd asked me.”

“No need,” Merlin says, hefting on a pair of jeans that, surprisingly, fits him better than his own. “If you could help me with that jumper...” He unsuccessfully tries moving his shoulder, grunting with the effort. “Hurts more than it did yesterday.”

“I know how gunshot wounds feel.” Pendragon eases the jumper up one of Merlin's arms, then the other. “Believe me, I know.”

Merlin winces, but succeeds in working the garment down his chest. “I'd ask, but I have a feeling you wouldn't answer.”

Pendragon looks him in the eyes. His are clear, unshadowed. They slant with humour and he steps back. “Maybe one day.”

When Merlin's dressed, he asks, “So where are we going?”

Pendragon smirks. “That's classified for now.”

 

*****

[ ](http://s845.photobucket.com/user/pouletroti/media/ACBB%2002%20LD1327819.jpg.html)

The car is a nondescript Nissan, grey, with a dent in the back. Inside it's spacious enough for Merlin to stretch his legs in and the seat yields itself to his shape easily enough. With the head rest belt up, he can lean back and let his eyelids go to half-mast. If not top of the line, the radio is dependable, and its sound, although not pure, comes out steady and strong. It's tuned into a station that primarily airs eighties power anthems. It's not Merlin's kind of music, and ordinarily he wouldn't be listening to it, but it distracts him from thoughts that send him reeling, clog his mind to a standstill, and in that way it's good. Calming, freeing. His heartbeats go together with the dull sound of the windscreen wipers.

Sunglasses on, Pendragon drives northwards. He does so easily, going neither to fast nor too slow, never braking too suddenly, or manoeuvering too abruptly, but with a smooth dexterity that reveals him to be quite proficient at car handling.

When traffic slows down, Merlin looks out the smeared car window and says, “You still can't tell me where I'm going?”

“It's better if I don't,” Pendragon says, looking straight ahead.

“Why?” Merlin turns a notch, takes in Pendragon's unflappable expression, the firm line of his mouth, the wide set of his shoulders. “You can't believe we're being overheard. Unless you think your own car is bugged.”

Pendragon changes gears, doesn't put his hand back on the wheel, so he's only steering with economical flicks of the wrist. “I haven't told you the rules yet.” He overtakes a slowing car and settles back into the original lane, the engine purring with his juggling of it. “So it's better if I don't yet.”

“I don't understand.” Merlin splays his palm, hand starred like a question mark. “And I don't appreciate being blind-sided.”

“Of course not,” Pendragon says that with a huff. “You're a journalist.”

“What?” Merlin wings an eyebrow. He probably shouldn't pick at that sentence. Pendragon is, after all, police and ostensibly trying to help him, but he can't ignore the prickling of his skin, the sense of annoyance that builds up inside him. It's like a live thing he can barely tame. “You think we're all... what? Sun hacks?”

“You do poke your nose where it doesn't belong.” Pendragon taps on the steering wheel. “And then need our help.”

Merlin tips his head back and laughs, thumbing the corners of his eyes where the tears gather. Even as he does so, he moves his head from side to side. The chuckle dries in his throat and he's left with a soreness in his gullet and filmed vision. When he sobers, cold digging at his bones, he says, “People need to know the truth. So big corporations don't get to break the law unpunished, so that mighty politicians don't get to spin lies, sway an uninformed public's opinion, so that crime is uncovered.” His breath thins with his fast delivery and he inhales once before speaking again. “Truth is a defence weapon.”

Pendragon's mouth gapes open as if he's about to speak, but he doesn't. His jaws clicks and for a few long moments only the engine makes any noise. “But who decides what's the truth?”

“You can present the facts,” Merlin says. “And then the public decides.”

“I wouldn't always trust public opinion.”

“Nobody's saying you should.” Merlin's had this conversation before, but Pendragon seems to be getting to the point faster than most. “We're – the people in my profession – are just giving you a way to make up your mind.”

“And that's what you were doing the other night?”

Merlin looks at the passing cars, at their glistening bodies. Despite their differences, they're all so similar, all by-products of modernity. They drive past an exit. Merlin reads the signs. One says London, Warwick, Stratford, M40. Another points to a village Merlin's never had reason to visit and thus has never heard of. Its presence reminds him of the fact Merlin has no idea where Pendragon's taking him. “I was pursuing a story. Because I thought it needed to be outed. So people could be aware and defend themselves.”

Pendragon speeds off into the fast lane.

“People like you, like me.” Merlin believes he was probably unfair on this one. His attempts weren't aimed at people like Pendragon, individuals with no magic, leading normal, everyday lives. He was trying to right a wrong done on people like him, wasn't he? Maybe that's selfish. Maybe that's what got him into this scrape. “And if you're asking me if I'm sorry I did it--”

Pendragon brakes when their car comes too close to fender-bender with the vehicle ahead. His fingers whiten around the wheel. “No, I--”

“The answer is,” Merlin says, before Pendragon can pre-empt him, give him an out he doesn't want, “yes and no. Yes, I regret it because of Mordred. I had no business involving him. I should have acted in a way that guaranteed his safety.” He should have stayed in that car for one, tried to do proper CPR on Mordred. “I should have made sure he got out alive.” He feels a sharp tightening across his chest. “The answer is also no. Because the Malagant people need to be stopped. Because magic users already are a discriminated category.”

“And you're one?” Pendragon gives him a sharp sideways glance.

Merlin doesn't usually bring it up in conversation, not after he's virtually known someone for the better parts of five minutes. But he wagers that, being police, Pendragon already knows that about him. It must be on his file somewhere. “Yes.” He still reels at the admission. “Yes, I am.”

“I won't say I understand what it means to you,” Pendragon says, his gaze slipping over Merlin for a tense second or two. “But I get how it would change your outlook.”

They stop at a service station and get into a Costa Express. Merlin doesn't eat. Pendragon is perfunctory about it. He gets an egg sandwich and a coffee. Merlin empties three sachets of sugar into his, stirs a little, clockwise and anticlockwise, but doesn't drink more than half. He tries not to look at the newspaper someone left balled up between his seat and the partition behind him. It features a photo of Mordred, the caption in bold reading 'Junior Doctor found dead on Vauxhall Bridge'.

In the picture Mordred looks younger than he was when Merlin met him, probably in his very early twenties. In it he has longer hair and a rounder face. His eyes are open wide and have an air of innocence about them that makes him look completely naive. And perhaps Mordred was, Merlin reflects, or he wouldn't have embroiled himself in the Malagant case. He wouldn't have blown the whistle and helped Merlin. He'd be alive now.

“Don't.” Pendragon pushes the newspaper away. “You'll only give yourself pain.”

Merlin doesn't comment. He takes one more sip of his coffee, which tastes burnt and syrupy, dabs a paper napkin at his mouth, and stands.

Pendragon chews on his last morsel, cleans his hands on a paper towel, and heaves himself up.

They drive for another three or four hours. Merlin isn't sure because he naps once or twice. He doesn't mean to, feels like he's too wired to, but nonetheless he sinks into a kind of dazing torpor that slows his brain. He wakes up disorientated, with his heart in his throat, and a sense of dislocation worked deep within him. It takes him a few precious seconds to tell where he is, why he's there.

They park in front of a two-storey suburban house. Its front is grey stone, its roof rather flat. Most of the windows are shuttered and nothing grows in the flowerbeds fronting the construction. Opening the door, Pendragon ushers him into a furnished flat that still manages to look semi-empty. The walls are lime-washed, the floors bright linoleum that catches the neon lights, and the furniture is functional but scant.

“So the rules,” Pendragon says, lobbing the car keys at the kitchen table. “You don't use your real name. You don't contact anyone you know. You don't log into your social media. You are, for all intents and purposes, a ghost.”

“I've a family, I've a job,” Merlin says. “I have a duty by Mordred and--”

Pendragon's expression slackens and his gaze looks more compassionate to Merlin, certainly softer, than it did before. “If you want to stay alive, it's got to be like this.”

Merlin can't say that he doesn't want to survive the current ordeal, but at the same time he's not sure he can actually live like that. “What about my parents? Do they...”

Pendragon picks up on what Merlin means without his having to round that sentence off. “At the moment we think it safer if you don't contact anyone, even them. Both for you and for them.”

Merlin's thoughts thin and finally blank. “Yes, I can see why.”

“Later on, you will be allowed to have close family members join you,” Arthur says, head low, eyes on the floor. “Your significant other...”

Palm flat on the worktop, Merlin leans against the table. “They have a life. My family. I can't take that from them.”

“Ask them,” Pendragon says. “I think you should ask them if they're willing to give it up.”

Merlin nods, but he can't say he's convinced. His father is an excellent doctor. His community needs him. And his mother wouldn't be happy away from his father. Thank God, he has no partner whose life he can disrupt to the point of ruin. “You said 'later'...”

Pendragon exhales loudly, sits across from him. “Justice will be done, but I can't promise it will all happen quickly.”

“I know.” Over his career Merlin had plenty of time to take stock of the slowness of the judicial system. It's just that his life has never depended on it before. “I understand.”

“That's good.” Pendragon leans forward. “As long as you do what I tell you, and you're prudent, this is all going to work out. I promise.”

Merlin leans his forehead against his palm; his mouth twists. “You would say that.”

Pendragon grimaces. “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth?” Merlin supposes that it's such an elaborate concept he's probably asking for too much. But he does need to understand. He necessitates honesty, for someone to see that he does. “Only that.”

“You're in danger, mortal danger, and you need to watch out.” The jut of Pendragon's jaw sharpens. “For the foreseeable future your life won't be as it was because you've a giant target plastered on your back.” The hands he has splayed on the table curl inwards. “You'll have to hide. Lie about who you are. Give up most of what you love. That's the truth of it. But if this goes well.” Pendragon rolls his shoulders backwards. “If this goes as planned, the Malagant people will end up in prison, and you'll be able to get back to your life. But till then it's an uphill road and I want you to never lower your guard.”

Doubling right over the table, Merlin buries his head in his arms. Eyes closed, darkness surrounds him. It's good, sinking into it, thinking of nothing, plunging into these depths. They're not familiar, not in any way that counts, but they're soothing.

“You ought to catch some sleep,” Pendragon tells him. “It's been a hard couple of days.”

Merlin can't object to that. “Yeah. Yeah.” He pushes to his feet and wanders off, looking for the bedroom.

“It's to your left.” Pendragon's voice follows after him.

The bedroom is like the rest of the house. The walls are a matte white. A bed frame rests against the far wall. The sheets and pillowcase are grey all over, stretched taut over the mattress, crease free. Forming a mound over the linens, the duvet is a shade or two darker. The shelving on the wall is empty, a little dusty in the corners, but otherwise in good trim. The dresser, pale wood, looks flimsily built and equally void of contents. There are no appliances.

“I'll get you a television,” Pendragon says, appearing behind him.

“Thanks.” Merlin makes himself walk past the threshold. “Are you driving back tonight?”

Glimpsing away, Pendragon rubs at the back of his neck. He shifts and sighs. “No. No, I won't be.” The corners of his mouth lift a little and he trades gazes with Merlin. “It's late. There's no point driving all the way to London. I'll sleep on the sofa.”

Stripping off his jacket and shirt, Pendragon pads into the other room, so that he's left in a plain white sleeveless vest.

Merlin calls after him, “Thank you.”

 

***** 

His office is empty. The neons blare on and the computer whirs in the corner but no one's around. Merlin pivots on his feet, looks over his shoulder. He calls out Gwaine and Freya's names but they don't answer. Seeing as he's alone, he walks to his desk. It's cluttered with stacks of papers, folders, post-it notes taped on top of them. He opens a notepad and starts writing in it. He doesn't remember what story he's on, but the words pour from his pen all the same, crowding the page, blotting it with ink.

He's filled an entire sheet, when the door creaks on its hinges.

Merlin doesn't even look up. Even though he isn't sure what time it is, he says, “You're late, Freya.”

“It's not Freya.” The door closes. “You know who I am.”

This time Merlin sits back, head tilted towards the newcomer. “Mordred,” he says, aware that his presence is wrong, jarring, absurd. Mordred's bleeding freely from the temple and his face is wan, his skin papery-thin and translucent. “Mordred, oh God.”

Mordred smiles though his skin doesn't stretch. “I've come for you.”

The chair vanishes from under Merlin and he's standing. The desk between them, Mordred is moving towards him. His expression is now blank and emotion-free. Merlin waits in place, his body going cold, shivers racking him from head to foot. His stomach roils and his heartbeat marks a syncopated tattoo that seems to sound even outside his body.

Wordless now, Mordred continues to advance, and Merlin knows that he will die if he gets to him. He's equally powerless to move. His legs weigh a ton and his body is stone, firmly rooted in place. “I don't know how to help you,” he says, shaking his head. “I don't.”

Mordred reaches out to him and Merlin shoots up in bed. It's dark around him though not wholly so. Some light filters in from the window and laces a swathe of room, a floor section, the wall opposite, a chest of drawers. “Not home,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face. Sweat, cold and sticky, beads it. “Right.”

He goes to the bathroom, lets the tap run, and washes when the water's at its coldest. He doesn't bother drying up with a towel and, still dripping from the ends of his hair and ears, he wanders into the kitchen. There's no food in the fridge, but he's not hungry so that's not disappointing. Glasses sit in the cupboard, so he takes one and fills it to the brim with water. He drinks it all in one gulp, then presses the glass against his forehead.

In a slump, he sits on one of the stools and looks into the distance, his vision blurring as he stares at the pale tiles.

“Can't sleep, can you?” Pendragon says, as he saunters in, hair on end from sleeping on the sofa, hands in his pockets.

“Sorry I woke you.” Merlin must have made an awful lot of noise. “I didn't mean to. I just--”

“No worries.” Pendragon moves over and perches onto the stool next to Merlin's, their elbows brushing. “I understand.”

Merlin lets out a breath. “Funny, because I don't.”

Pendragon's gaze cuts to him, he leans his face against his hand, and sleepily he says, “Let me tell you a story.”

Merlin braces his shoulders upwards, waits.

“There was a young policeman once, just fresh out of probation,” Pendragon says. “He had finished his fire arms training because he wanted to enrol in a specialist unit. He got his wish and became part of SCO19. He was pumped, let me tell you.” Pendragon smiles. “There he was, ready to do the job he'd trained for, to do his best, protect people.”

Merlin can probably guess where the story's going, but as a journalist he's learnt to let people take their time telling their tales, especially if they're personal. “That's commendable.”

“Maybe in his head it was,” Pendragon says, lowering his gaze. He fingers the surface of the table. “Anyway at this point he's eager, and he wants to be in on all the action. It's strange the way things line up. Sometimes you wait endlessly for something to happen and it doesn't.” There's a wistful quality to Pendragon's tone. “And sometimes you get exactly what you want.”

“Something happened.” Merlin doesn't even need to put that as a question.

“Indeed, it did.” Pendragon purses his mouth, his eyes focusing. “There was a hostage situation and the criminals involved were anything but professional.” He releases a huff of air that falls short of laughter. “For some reason hardened criminals are less likely to end things in a blood bath.”

“They don't panic.” Merlin's never covered crime news, but he's read enough copy to know how those things go. “They only kill when they mean to.”

“Which is not to say that's welcome, but yes.” Pendragon nods. “You can second guess them.”

“Unlike our young policeman,” Merlin says, “who couldn't tell what was about to happen.”

“Right.” Pendragon exhales, throws his head back, then shakes it. “It was all going well, all things considered. But the abductors panicked and things went south.” He wets his lips. “There were six dead. It made the papers.”

Merlin recalls something like that being mentioned in the press, but only vaguely. He doesn't mean to ask about the specifics though. “I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.” Pendragon winces. “For months I couldn't sleep a wink. I went over and over what I'd done wrong.”

“And then it stopped and you got over it?”

“No.” Pendragon affects a laugh. “For the longest time I couldn't. It took the help of my direct superior and a few choice friends to get better. And even so I had to go for a clean slate, transfer to the NCA.”

Merlin bows his head. He takes a moment to let the words sink in and though they cut, they also offer some relief. “Thank you,” Merlin says. “For being honest.”

“You'll make it.” Pendragon rises and places a hand on Merlin's shoulder. “I guarantee it.”

As Pendragon moves past him, Merlin turns his head. “I still want justice.” He pauses because he's not sure he can say it, that the ground won't open and swallow him whole if he does. “For Mordred.”

Pendragon spins in the doorway and nods. “One step at a time, Merlin, one step at a time.”

 

****

The next day Pendragon leaves for London. Merlin's left with some choice homework to do. He has to get acquainted with his new environment, namely the house, and the town map. It's important so he doesn't look like a fish out of water. He has to study a fact sheet relating to his new identity, make sure he has it by heart, and then destroy it. He goes over it as he eats breakfast, croissants Pendragon bought before Merlin woke. There are a pile of them, stacked on a white plate. They're stale, the crust too dark a brown, and the sugary topping is dense, far too sweet, but they're there.

By the time he's done with the documents, the doorbell sounds. Merlin freezes, blood curdling in his veins. His eyes search the room for a weapon, but there's none. He only has his magic. Digging deep inside himself, he summons enough to levitate a knife. It's not a big one, let alone one that can be used for self-defence, but it's better than nothing and Merlin doesn't intend to go down without a fight.

Slipping off his shoes, he pads from kitchen to hall. Another knock sounds. The knife hovering somewhere north of his head, Merlin reaches the door. Heart hammering against his ribcage, he takes a breath, and, having placed a palm flat against the grain of the panel, he looks into the spyhole.

At first he sees nothing but the step and a section of street beyond, but then a face comes into view. Because of the filter, it looks distorted, with the angles of it planing away from the nose. Long, curly hair, dark and twisted backwards into some kind of severe hair-do, surround the visage. When the person steps back, Merlin can see the police uniform she's wearing. It's creaseless, the collar starched, a bit tight against the skin of the neck, the tie carefully knotted. The epaulettes have no stripes which means he's dealing with a constable. The only question is if it's a real one.

With a swipe of the hand, Merlin floats the knife round the bend in the hallway and opens the door.

He's braced for a fight, to hurl his magic at the woman on his doorstep, but she smiles quite cheerily and holds up a cardboard box. “Hello,” she says, shifting her weight and the box together with it. “I'm Constable Guinevere Smith?”

Merlin steps backwards, but doesn't let his magic go.

Box in hand, Constable Smith walks past him. “I was charged with keeping you in supply.”

Scratching at his forehead, Merlin says, “Uh, who by?”

“Oh, DC Chambers of the Whitby Police station,” Constable Smith says, “North Yorkshire Police.”

Merlin sidles.

“I have the stuff you were expecting.” Constable Smith changes her grip on the box. “I thought you might want it.”

Even while having no idea what the Constable is talking about, Merlin shows her into the kitchen. He lets the knife drop and by the time Constable Smith rounds the corner, it's clattered to the floor. With his foot, he pushes it under sideboard. The Constable raises an eyebrow, but doesn't otherwise ask what it's all about.

With a groan, she deposits the box on the table and starts emptying it. She places the sugar and coffee packages on the counter and puts the bottles of milk and juice in the fridge. As Merlin peeks inside the cardboard container, he clocks rolls of toilet paper, more groceries, the day's newspaper, and packs of batteries.

As Constable Smith potters about, Merlin grabs the paper. It's a local one, so the top headlines are all about events in the area. Even so, when Merlin thumbs his way to page four, he finds an article discussing Mordred. Chewing hard on his lower lip, he turns around and reads it. It's vague. It summarises the facts known to the public and makes a mention of Mordred's family and friends. Malagant Pharmaceuticals isn't cited at all and neither is Merlin's paper. It's just the bare bones of an article and Merlin has no idea whether the author is sitting on more information and biding their time, or if this is all there is and all there will be.

His fingers whitening at the knuckle, Merlin crumples the pages up.

“Um, Mr Ambrose,” Constable Smith says, using his fake credentials, “are you all right?”

Merlin whirls round, his shoulders up like hackles. “Yes,” he says, his eyes sliding out of focus, so he no longer sees the kitchen and Constable Smith, but blurs and smudges of colour. “I'm okay.”

Constable Smith clears her throat. “Right.” She roots in her pockets. “This is for you.”

Merlin studies the object she passes him. It's a mobile phone. It has a large screen and it looks like it's an up to date gadget even though it's not of any make he knows. “I see.”

“You can use it for emergencies,” Constable Smith says. “It's not disabled for any numbers.”

“Uh, thank you,” Merlin's says, not sure that's the appropriate response. He's not certain there's any that would fit the situation. “I'll use it sparingly.”

“I ought to ask.” Constable Smith wrinkles her nose. “Is there anything you need or that you'd like me to get you?”

Merlin would like to go back to London, to be able to warn his mother and father, tell Gwaine and Freya what's happened to him. They must all be worried sick. But he can't do it and short of that there's little he wants. But he must give the Constable something. “I'd love to have the internet.”

“Oh,” she says, smiling wide. “I think we can probably arrange that. I mean I'm not a hundred percent positive we can do it. But I'll speak to DC Chambers about it.”

Constable Smith offers to make him tea. At first Merlin refuses. He hardly thinks that's her job and, given he now has supplies, he can make one himself. But she looks so anxious and concerned, working her hands together and worrying her lower lip, that eventually he lets her. She smiles and chats on, tells him about her secret coffee recipe, how the vending machine at the station spits out some horrible dreck. After she's poured the scalding hot liquid in their mugs, she leans against the counter and moans.

For some reason that cracks him up and he laughs.

“What?” she asks, casting her lowered glance about.

“Nothing.” He takes a bracing sip. The coffee is on the thin side, but it tastes good for instant. “I just... didn't think I'd laugh again.”

“That's so sad.” She brushes a hand down his arm. “I hope you won't think that again.”

When they're done, the mugs end up in the sink, dregs of sugar and beverage clinging to the bottom. Merlin opens the tap and rinses them. He has no dish soap yet, so he lets it be for now. Perfection doesn't really belong in his life at the moment. Once he's dried his hands, Constable Smith walks him to the window. She rolls up the blinds and points. “See that car?” She waits for him to nod. “That's one of ours. Those are Sergeants Tristan Mador and Yseult Shalott. They're there for your protection.”

They don't look like police to Merlin. Maybe it's because they're in plain clothes. Maybe it's because they laugh and talk to each other with big expansive gestures. Perhaps it's because they don't watch the house with circumspect looks. However that may be, their antics don't look official to Merlin. There's no veneer of bureaucracy to them. It doesn't matter. They're probably trained. He's safe. He knows he's safe. He only hopes his family and Gaius are too.

“Thanks for letting me know,” Merlin says, rolling down the blinds. “I appreciate it.”

Her nostrils filling on an exhale, Constable Smith inclines her head. “I'll be back tomorrow with more stuff for you. If there's something in particular you'd like...”

“Nothing else, thank you.”

She smiles and seeks his gaze. Though he has no idea how much she knows and whether he ought to ask, he can tell she's trying to cheer him up. 

On the doorstep she says, “Goodbye, Mr Ambrose.”

Merlin is once again left to the emptiness of his temporary house.

 

***** 

The next day he gets more food though it's not Constable Smith who brings it. A plain-clothes officer barges in with two shopper bags full of groceries. He doesn't help Merlin with them. He makes no small talk. He just lays them on the floor in the kitchen and leaves. Merlin places the perishables in the fridge and the other items in the cupboards. In spite of now having food, he skips lunch in favour of playing games on his phone.

He has no internet access so that's the only thing he can do. Watching shapes move on the screen is distracting enough, though he's developed a hatred for the colour orange. And for everything that glints too much. By the time his eyes start to bleed, the sun has gone down and shadows have crept into the flat. Judging that he's been sitting in the same corner long enough, he wanders into the kitchen and starts opening cupboards.

He places a handful of items on the counter, checks their expiry dates, and sets pots and pans on the range. To the simmering oil he adds a blend of powders, curries and spices, which he dilutes with milk. When the garlic is golden, he stirs in some meat. It's not a by the book recipe, but it's the first hot food he's had in days.

Plate in hand, he wanders into the living room. He considers eating seated in the kitchen but there's no point decking out the table. He sits on the floor with his back to the sofa and forks food into his mouth. Though he was heavy handed with the condiments, at first the taste doesn't really register, but by and by it does and he stops shoving meat in his mouth. He chews; he lets himself appreciate flavour of his dish.

He doesn't bother doing the washing up. He used only one dish anyway, he's not sure the washer works, and rinses can wait till tomorrow. Plate discarded in the sink, he goes into the other room, then wanders back into the kitchen. He completes a few detours of it, then, tired of it, he paces the living room. When he's in the bathroom, he notices that the tap leaks. A tool box lies in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. On opening it, Merlin finds it's got an adequate supply of gadgets.

With the box swinging against his leg, he makes for the bathroom again. He rests the box at his feet and opens it. After he's shut the water down from under the basin, he pries off the decorative cap, takes out the screw, and puts the spanner to the nut. At first it doesn't give, but when he forces it, it goes loose. The bones of his hand hurt with the motion, but he's almost done and he supposes a leaky tap would be a bother to sleep to. He removes the stem, oils it and pops stem and nut back on.

When he tries the tap again, it doesn't leak.

“One job well done,” he says to himself, before packing up the toolbox and fitting it back under the kitchen sink.

That night he doesn't sleep in the master bedroom. Like Arthur did, he takes the sofa. It's big enough for him to sprawl full length on and he doesn't even have to curl up. He has no reading material. There's nothing on his phone apart from the games he toyed with earlier. So he reads the microwave instructions and, when the lines blur together, he puts the leaflet down, hugs himself, hands under armpits, and turns his face into the back of the canvas.

At seven he wrenches out of sleep, his breathing coming in jagged spikes and his body covered in sweat. When he stops panting, he fixes himself some breakfast. He doesn't exactly eat all of it or even part of it, but he makes himself try. Stick to a pattern. Act as if nothing's different. That's the key to not going crazy. It's not as if it's true, but he has precious little choice. He listens to the tic of the kitchen clock. He watches sunlight seep deeper into the room. He showers and dresses and, bracing himself, he goes out. Just as the policeman from the car makes to get out of the vehicle, he runs into a jogging girl. “Oh, sorry.” Her breath comes short and she wipes at her forehead. “You must be the new neighbour.”

“Um.” Merlin looks back towards the house he just came out of, blinks. “I suppose so. I'm going to stay here awhile.”

She pushes her hand out. “Sefa Williams. I live in that rose bungalow over there.”

“Nice to meet you.” Merlin wishes there was a way he could make this quick and painless, but he can't without drawing more attention than he wants to. “Wyllt Ambrose.”

“Well, nice to meet you too, Wyllt.” Sefa rocks from heel to toe. “I'm glad someone's finally bought the house.”

Merlin's eyes go wide. “Bought?”

“Oh, you didn't.” Sefa places her palm before her mouth. “Silly me. I thought you must've. Your house--” She tips her chin at it. “Has almost always been empty, so I thought you had to have bought it.”

“Oh, no.” Merlin ducks his head. “I haven't.”

“Rented then?” Sefa nods to herself. “Saves you a mortgage.”

“I suppose it does.” Merlin would almost trade his situation for a mortgage problem.

A woman and a dog issue out of the house Sefa indicated as hers and calls out to her. Sefa sidles, rubs her hands down her sides. “Well, If you need anything, don't hesitate to pop by.”

“I will,” Merlin says, looking down.

“Good.” She retreats. “Goodbye.”

When she's gone, the door locked behind her, Merlin starts walking down the street, slipping his hands in his pockets. Car doors slam shut and Merlin glances backwards, his heartbeat spiking in his throat. He doesn't turn around, but he slows down, gives the street a sideways backwards glance. The man and woman from the patrol car are behind him. They're still in plain clothes, but their dark coats and shirts are less than casual. At a glance from Merlin, their jaws set and they give him a sharp nod.

His heartrate only slowly going down, Merlin starts down the road again. He needs a map; doesn't know where he's going. But it's not as if he's got any pressing appointment, anywhere to go. He can take in his surroundings.

This is a residential area, with low houses, two storey tops, most of them square. Some are brick with glaringly white bow windows and strips of flower beds by the porch. Pastel colours paint the facades of others; chimneys are brick, plastered over the same hue as the facade. Cars station in driveways or before garage doors. For the most part they're small city cars with the occasional four by four sitting among them, with no high-end vehichles idling anywhere. There are no shops here and no bus stops. Merlin wanders on until he reads a sign that says 'station'. He pushes in that direction.

In Station Square he finds a grocer. The shop is cramped. It has small ailes and overcrowded shelves. Though the coppers tailing him watch him from the doorway, he fills his basket with newspapers from the rack. He gets one of everything, local papers and national broadsheets. Then, just because his haul looks supiciously one note, he adds some perishables, a pack of razors, one of deodorant.

He pays cash and makes as little small talk as possible.

As he exits, he meets the gazes of his police tail. He nods; they make wide eyes at him. Inadvertently he bobs his head again. From then on, he tries to act as though they're not there, but it's not easy. He knows they are and why. Their presence is unshakeable, a shackle. He's the centre of their attention, their bullseye. That lends a distorting mirror to all his actions, makes his gestures unnatural. Letting his shoulders slump, he suits his pace to his heartbeat.

He considers stopping at shop windows, acting out a normal day, but what would be the point? This is not a normal day.

When he gets to the safe house, he slams the door and makes a beeline for the kitchen. He leaves the grocery bag on the table and only takes the newspapers with him into the living room. He spreads them out at the foot of the sofa and goes through them systematically and one by one.

The Telegraph is pretty sparse about the information it offers. Mordred's biography sits right next to an account of what the police believe to have happened on the night of the murder. For the most part they're not wrong. Based on the tracing of skidmarks, they deduce a car chase has taken place. They're also right in guessing Mordred wasn't alone when he died. They don't mention Merlin at all. Merlin has no idea whether that's because the police's put a gag order on that, or because they haven't got to him yet.

With shaking hands, he moves on to the next paper. It's a fresh edition of the Guardian. The article about the Vauxhall Bridge murder is on page three. As he tries to read it, his vision blurs. He puts the paper down, crumpling the corners. He lets his eyelids go down, and he breathes through his nostrils. When his hands steady, he tries again.

This time the print comes into focus. Skimming the first lines, he goes to the gist of the article.

There's more information in this one. The author did some background research on Mordred's family as well as to his activities prior to his death. It's the first article that mentions Malagant Pharma though there are no allegations as to its involvement in Mordred's death. The report closes with a quote from one of Mordred's old professors, a certain James Aglain, MD, honFPH, FMedSci.

Merlin reads it aloud. “Mordred was always very committed, both to his profession and to morality. Lately, he came to me with an ethics issue. I can only say that his sense of deontology was what distinguished him and what pushed him to come to me. I wish I'd had more solid answers to give him.”

There's something about Aglain's phrasing that makes Merlin pause. It's generic, but there's also something about it that's not. It could be a reference to the Malagant problem. Thought it's not a given, it's certainly possible.

Merlin sucks in his lip, bites it till it stings. Tossing the paper aside, he goes into the kitchen. There's a notepad in the drawer, a biro on the table. He scoops them up and marches back to his position by the sofa. Pen cap caught between his lips, he takes a note of Aglain's name, circles it when he's done.

Next to the quote he places a question mark.

Two spaces down he copies a second Aglain citation coming from another source. This time there's more about Aglain himself.

Merlin writes in block letters. 'Imperial College, London. School of Public Health'. He highlights his scribbles twice.

By the time lunchtime rolls around, Merlin has taken as many notes as he can without a database.

 

****

When the boiler is full, Merlin wanders under the shower-head. Bowing his head, he lets the water completely soak his hair, drum on his shoulders. He doesn't pick up the soap. Rivulets chasing their way down his torso, his legs, he doesn't move. The jet sluices down his body. His shoulder stings a little where the stitch is, where his flesh is raw with the graze the bullet put there.

Shaking the sensation off, he focuses on the heat raining on him, on the release of muscles that were too long gathered in a knot. His elbows drip. His skin flushes in places, his knees, his shins, the outer arches of his feet. Palms flat against the tiles, he closes his eyes. Warmth washes over him; and works under his skin, into his bones. As his thoughts blank, he arches his back in a stretch that makes him groan.

The doorbell rings.

Merlin's fingers curl.

Tense again, Merlin switches off the water, flings open the glass door, and towels himself dry. Slipping his jeans on, hair still dripping, he pads barefoot into the living room. He draws the curtain back a fraction and sees that the police car is still in place. He makes for the hallway. Bracing himself with magic, he opens the door.

“Uh.” Pendragon shifts the box he's hugging, sweeping a head-to-toe glance over Merlin. “Showering, were you?”

“Yes.” Merlin doesn't think there's any point denying that. He's still wet. He nods at the box. “What's that?”

Pendragon smiles. “I promised you a TV. Well...”

Merlin dives forward. “Here,” he says, his fingers brushing Pendragon's as he tries to get a grip on the box. “Let me help.”

“No, I--” Pendragon looks up from the box and at Merlin. “I can deal.”

Merlin huffs. “You shouldn't be doing all the work.”

Pendragon bites his lip and Merlin can tell he wants to object, but he doesn't. They square each other at opposite ends of the container and lift simultaneously. They clear the hallway and cross the living room. With a groan, they put down the box.

“It's quite heavy,” Merlin says, eyeing it.

Pendragon shifts from foot to foot. “You have precious little in the way of....” He winces. “Well, everything. I thought this'd help.”

Merlin's not sure it does. It won't change his situation, not in any way that counts, except perhaps by giving him access to more news. But the gesture means something to him. It's the first act of kindness that anybody's done him since the night Mordred died and it loosens an ugly knot in him. “I.” Merlin lowers his gaze, shifts his hands to his hips, fidgets his way into another position. “Thank you.”

Together, they lift the television out of the box and place it on the stand's top shelf. They connect it to the wiring and plug it in.

Picking up the remote, Pendragon says, “The moment of truth.”

He turns the telly on and an image sharply comes into focus. The saturation is optimal, the colours bright and realistic. Even without a surround system, the sound is potent. The programme seems to be related to niche sports and Merlin can't say he has a lot of interest in that, but that doesn't seem to matter much. He smiles. “It does work.”

“You doubted it would?” Pendragon scrunches his face up at him. “Or did you doubt me?”

Merlin walks a step back. “Who? Me? No.” He widens his grin. “Why would I?”

Pendragon scoffs, arches an eyebrow.

Merlin does too, gazes away. “Only a little.”

“There,” Pendragon says, “my instincts are never wrong.”

Merlin stands taller, makes a questioning face.

Pendragon looks away, toying with the remote. “I'll program a few channels in for you.”

Since he's still half undressed, Merlin goes into the other room to change. Merlin's hair has dried, so all he does is pull on a jumper and joggers combo and a pair of trainers. The noise from the television filters in from the other room, steady and somewhat loud. Laughter, happy voices, the cadenced tones of discussion. He pauses, pricks his ears. It all seems so normal, so every day, that for a moment he feels as if he's standing upside down, with all the blood rushing to his head. He leans against the wall, forehead braced against it, and takes a moment to tell himself that he must get used to this, this strange imitation of the everyday.

When he returns to the living room, Merlin asks, “Are you staying?”

“Yes.” Pendragon glances up and away from the remote. “The whole night.”

Merlin asks. “What did you do wrong?”

Pendragon frowns at him. “I'm sorry?”

“To always be assigned the night shift?” Merlin asks, as he strolls into the kitchen.

“Nothing.” Pendragon's voice sounds muffled, tense. “I just have rotas.”

On the counter Merlin slices bread and tomatoes. On the bread he places cheese sections and ham. He garnishes the wedges with chopped up vegetables. He brings one plate into the living room and passes it to Pendragon.

“Thanks,” Pendragon says, placing the dish on the floor. “Aren't you sitting?”

“Yeah.” Merlin turns the plate in his hand. “In a moment.”

He walks to the door, crosses the street, and taps on the window of the car idling opposite the entryway to his lodging. The policewoman inside it rolls the window down. She arches an eyebrow at him, her gaze going from the plate to him.

“Since you're in here waiting with no access to food--” Because of me, Merlin thinks but doesn't say. “--I thought I might bring you something.”

“We have Costa sandwi--” the policeman sitting behind the wheel says.

His partner interrupts him. “But these look much fresher.” She takes the plate, rests it on top of the beverage holder, and smiles. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

When Merlin turns around, the door to the house gapes open and Pendragon's standing sideways on the steps, a gun in his hand, pointing down and wide off his legs. “For God's sake,” he says, “what are you doing out here?”

Merlin walks towards him. He shrugs his shoulders. “Giving the night shift over there something to eat.” He points backwards. “I thought it'd be nice.”

Pendragon pockets his weapon, sighs. “Come on, come inside.”

When the door closes behind them, Merlin says, “I didn't think it could be dangerous.”

“I know.” Pendragon uncocks the gun and activates the safety, resting the weapon on the hallway's side-table. “For what it's worth, I don't think anyone's actually out there, but you just took off...”

“Sorry, I'm not used to being monitored.” Merlin's shoulders collapse. “I just wanted to do my shadows a good turn.”

“I understand that.” Pendragon's hand lands on Merlin's shoulder. “That was actually really thoughtful of you.”

“I hardly think so?” Merlin's brow crinkles heavily.

“It was.” Pendragon squeezes, his grip sure, tight, warm. He cheats a look at Merlin: it's not casual; it's not throwaway. It's more of an intent study that resolves into a smile. “It's actually quite telling.”

Pendragon doesn't expand on the subject, doesn't say how. What he means stays impenetrable. With that sentence left dangling, he marches back into the living and settles before the TV. He looks back at Merlin then, wings an eyebrow. When Merlin joins him, he gives his sandwich a bite. “Aren't you eating?” he says, still chewing. “You've fed us all, but you aren't eating.”

Merlin rounds his shoulders. “Making those sandwiches gave me something to do.” He bites on his nail, taps his foot. “It helped me forget.”

“Merlin--”

“Could you do something for me?” Merlin asks on an in-drawn breath. Even to himself he sounds as if he's choking. “Please?”

Pendragon's eyes go smaller, but he nods.

“I know I can't make contact with my friends and family.” Merlin's heeded the lecture he was initially given, the one about secrecy. “But could you let me know if they're fine?”

Pendragon's eyes flare brightly. “Yes, I promise that I will.”

Merlin doesn't say anything. He doesn't reciprocate the look, feels that he can't. He rakes up his knees and hugs them, head up, gaze directed at the television. “Thank you, Arthur.”

They watch two films in a row. It's late enough for classics and Merlin's fine with the choice. There is a timeless quality about them that takes him out of the present. He sinks into the world of Bottleneck first. Then he embarks into a Western, brightened by James Stewart's easy smile, and Marlene's allure as, leg on a chair, whip in hand, she sings a song. Lastly, when it's already late enough, he sorts apart the plot strands of a vintage Miss Marple movie, confident in the fact he can tell who the murderer is from the get go and that order will replace chaos by the time the titles roll.

When they do, Merlin's vision has got blurry with sleep and he has to blink several times to be able to focus on Arthur.

“You're shot,” Arthur says, standing and offering him a hand up. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

“Yeah.” Merlin rubs at his eyes with his thumb. “Not sleepy now though. I'll just--” He rolls his neck. “I'll just lie on the sofa for a moment or two.”

Burrowing on it, he smushes his face in the pillow. He mumbles something, he's not even sure what, and Arthur says something back. Merlin's still trying to sort out what it was, when he falls asleep. When he wakes he finds a blanket on top of him and light bathing him in a warm pool. Arthur's gone and the flat is empty.

 

**** 

Collar up, Merlin crosses the street and lands on the pavement. In a parked car's wing mirror he sees his police detail. It's the same pair of officers from two nights ago, the man and the woman. They're in plain-clothes, wearing jeans and loose jackets, but they still stand out as officialdom. It's in the way they stand very upright, with their heads up, and in their no nonsense expression, which they dispense at anyone wanting to approach them.

Walking up street, Merlin reaches a modern brick building. While he takes the staircase up, his police tail hangs outside.

The back-facing windows are ceiling high and brighten the main reading room, which is dotted with desks that hug both the walls and the floor. Concentric shelves housing the catalogue surround the librarian's counter, on which a computer perches.

Merlin strides toward it and says, “Hi, I want to sign up for a library card.”

“I'll need you to fill this form,” the librarian says, showing him a printed sheet, “and I'll have to see some form of ID.”

“Of course.” Merlin shows her his new driving licence, and takes a pen from the penholder. A twine cord ties the ballpoint he chooses to its container.

Merlin waits for the librarian to scan his document before taking it back and copying from his data from it. While he's learnt his new name by heart, the minutiae he doesn't remember yet. The woman arches an eyebrow at him, but he acts as though it's nothing. When he's done, he fills another form and turns it over to the lady.

“Is this what you want?” she asks.

“Yes.” Merlin presses his lips together.

“Are you sure?” She reads the form over again, squinting at it so her eyes get lines around them. “The London phone book? That's what you want?”

“Yes.” Merlin smiles. “That's what I asked for.”

As he waits, Merlin studies the people in the library. There aren't that many, a student pouring over a large tome in the corner; a pensioner consulting a sheathed catalogue in another. Merlin gets why. It's early and a Monday morning. Those who must are at work. Kids are at school. If his life hadn't gone south, he'd would have been an the paper. He flicks a glance at his watch. Two past nine. He'd be at his desk by now, organising his notes in view of the day ahead. He'd have the biggest cup of coffee at his side and he'd be waiting for Gwaine to barge in with breakroom gossip on his lips and a new idea for the biggest story yet.

“Mr Ambrose,” the librarian says.

Merlin must make sure to buy today's copy of the Beacon; Gwaine's scoop on government off-shore funds should have been published by now.

“Mr Ambrose.”

Merlin turns around, sees the librarian pushing a copy of the material he requested towards him. “Sorry, I was lost in thought,” he says, lifting the volume. It's quite heavy, the binding fraying at the corners, a few flyaway sheets tucked in the centre. “Where's the photocopier?”

“In reading room two.” The Librarian points past the stairs. “On the left.”

The photocopier is old and battered. When Merlin places the open book on the glass surface, the machine's cover flap almost comes loose. The sheets jam in the out tray at least twice before the contraption finally coughs out a readable copy whose edges aren't smudged with ink.The photocopied page he folds in four and tucks in his pocket. The phonebook he returns.

“Already done?” the librarian asks, placing the phone book Merlin borrowed under the counter.

Merlin's about to turn tail and exit, when he sees his police duo hovering in the hallway by the glassdoors. “Actually, no,” Merlin says, giving the catalogue already on the counter a quick once over. “I'd like to borrow a copy of this.”

The librarian scoffs, but she goes looking for his book and returns with it in less than a minute. “Very popular choice.” She pauses. “With the kids.”

When Merlin passes through the doors he shows his tail his book and marches past them. At his place, he hangs the jacket, rifles its pockets, grabs the folded photocopy, and marches to the kitchen counter, mobile in hand. Having splayed out the piece of paper, he memorises the number, calls up the number pad on his phone and thumbs in the first two digit then hangs up.

He drops the phone, leans off the counter, and hangs his bowed head between his extended arms.

 

**** 

_Thousands of primary schools across the country are slotted to lose the current support of local jurisdiction and be deprived of the material assistance provided by their network of local authorities. The chancellor has been quoted to say this will “free these institutions from the burden of centralised bureaucracy”. But this is pure and utter nonsense. The authorities so condemned by the chancellor do not bind schools with their restrictive rules. They offer services, which range from the financial to the technical sector, and set up a form of inspectorate that is more supportive than Ofcom's. This superstructure is to be done away with in favour of academy trusts. Now let me tell you who this benefits exactly – the already privileged – and how it will affect the nation's youth – letting them stagnate if they don't belong to the aforementioned upper echelons._

_Let's crunch numbers and uncover the plot._

As he reads the initials at the bottom of the article, Merlin smiles. He goes over the same paragraph again and again, just because he likes how it flows, the choice of words, the tone, challenging and ironic. It's the man he knows all right.

The door opens and Arthur walks in. “Sorry I just burst in, but you didn't open.”

With a start, Merlin turns around, leans away from the counter. “Sorry, I was taken in.”

“By your reading?” Arthur saunters over, settles next to Merlin, eyes the page. “Gwaine Kendall? Really, Merlin?”

Merlin thumbs the corners of his eyes. “I know.”

“This isn't going to help you.” Arthur slumps and shakes his head. “This isn't going to lift your spirits in the least.”

Merlin nods. He understands that better than Arthur thinks. He knows himself and what he's doing to himself. “I can't help it.”

Arthur bows his head, brushes shoulders with him. “I get it but still...”

“I suppose,” Merlin says, folding the newspaper so that only the first page shows, “that you've seen many cases like mine, met many people like me.”

Arthur's face creases into a startled expression. “No, actually, not that many.” He pauses. It's a prolonged, reflective pause during which he reads Merlin's face, studies it as if for meaning, for some kind of key. “I think you're quite different from anyone I've ever encountered before.”

Merlin gives a small breath of laughter. “Am I?”

“Yes.” Arthur nods. “Yes, you are.”

Merlin dips his gaze. The silence that follows is heavy. Merlin doesn't know whether it's so because of how meaningful it is or because of how awkward the situation is.

“Why don't I make you something to eat,” Arthur says. “You could use some food.”

“That's not your job.” Merlin scrunches his mouth up to one side. “Feeding me.”

“Never mind what my job is.” Arthur starts rooting for pots and lines a few up the counter. They're all so new, they shine. “I'm making pasta.”

Arthur fills the large stainless pot with water, puts it on the range, and salts the water. In a small pot he tosses sauce, mushrooms, dill. He peels and chops onion and garlic quite fast, the blade of the knife glinting with each descent of his wrist. When the water boils, he throws in the pasta. It's the short thick type, wholemeal. Apparently Constable Smith has a thing for his health.

“How come a cop can cook?” Merlin asks, as he follows Arthur around.

“Cops eat.” Arthur nudges his shoulders upwards. When the sauce starts bubbling fast, he turns the knob so the flame whooshes downwards. “Ergo cops can cook.”

“I must've bought into the Hollywood cliche,” Merlin says, taking a spoon and stirring it into the sauce. “You know, always on the run, chasing criminals, never being home.”

“I'm seldom home.” Arthur aligns his body with Merlin's, facing the range, with his back to table and draining counter. “That part is true. But that doesn't mean that when I am I can't indulge in a spot of cooking.”

Merlin lifts his spoon to his mouth. “This is inordinately good.” The spices blend in with the taste of the sauce without overwhelming it, and the mushrooms give it bite, texture. “Also nifty that you can practice on your witness protection charges.”

“I don't.” Arthur shoulders him aside so he can drain the water. A cloud of steam lifts upwards and the hood sucks it in. “You're the only one I've inflicted this on.”

There's no table cloth anywhere in the flat so they put their plates on the table's bare surface, a bottle of beer between them, cap off, foam at its mouth. The sliced bread lies on a towel by the side of each dish, while a bowl full of salad sits in a corner.

Once Merlin's eaten at least half of Arthur's pasta, Arthur says, “I asked. About your friends and family.”

Merlin stops spearing at his food. “How are they?”

“They're fine.” Arthur puts his fork down. “They're being guarded too and are fine.”

Relief floods Merlin. It pushes at his heart and makes his lungs fill. “Good.”

“They know that you're well and understand they can't be told where you are.”

Merlin nods. He wonders what his mother said, how his father reacted. He supposes Arthur won't know. This is just second-hand information he's sharing. Either way it's good. He can imagine it. And it's... He breathes through his nostrils, dabs at his eyes with the heel of his hands.

“Hey,” Arthur says, putting his cutlery down.

“It's okay.” Merlin smiles, loosens his voice in his chest, right past the knot of commotion that tangles inside it. “I'm fine. I'm glad.”

“I know it's tough.” Arthur leans against the back of his chair, his eyes on Merlin. They fill with concern, with the weight of care. “But I think you're tough too. You can weather it.”

“I have to.” Merlin fills his glass with beer, drinks a hefty swig. “No other choice. Is there?”

Arthur purses his lips, lowers his gaze. “Think of it this way. You're doing something good here. You'll get the people who murdered Mordred behind bars.”

“Will I?” Merlin has no idea what the investigators on the case are up to; how they're proceeding. He's just as blindsided as any other member of the public, depending as he does on the small amount of cryptic information the media's released. “By the way what happened to your dislike of journalists?”

“Nothing.” Arthur nudges his shoulders into a shrug. “But I read your pieces.”

“You read my pieces.”

“Yes.” As he reddens, Arthur's gaze converges on a point right before his nose. “And I don't think you're a fame chaser. You're...” He licks his lips. “The way you write... It's a mirror to your passion for justice, for words.”

“I thought--” Merlin fiddles with his food. “--you believed journalists were no good no matter what.”

“I changed my mind.” Arthur smiles lopsidedly. “I think I'm allowed to.”

“Yes.” Merlin moves his head up and down, lips at a tilt. “Of course, you are.”

“And--” Arthur takes a huge morsel of his food. “I think you were trying to make a difference, which is something I admire.”

Merlin makes a shape out of his paper napkin. He gives it a beak and a tail. “I suppose it doesn't matter if I was or wasn't.”

The space between Arthur's eyes crinkles. “I think it does.”

“I got Mordred killed,” Merlin says, without looking up from his moulding of the napkin. If he cuts at the sides, he can fashion wings. “And I won't be able to do any more good, expose the people who got to him, or do anything other that sit here, wasting my life.”

“Merlin--”

Merlin can see that Arthur wants to speak up, debate the point, but the door bell rings and he goes tense. Arthur pushes his chair back and stands. He gets his gun from its holster, arms it, and moves forward.

It's only at sight of the weapon that Merlin's breath thins with unease, that his heart squeezes in his chest. Arthur moves towards the hall and Merlin follows. He reaches into himself for his magic, lets it surface, so that his eyes glow and his skin knits in gooseflesh.

When he takes in the colour of Merlin's eyes, Arthur gasps, falters for a second, recoiling backwards. The movement is barely visible, but Merlin registers it, and a bitter taste comes in his mouth. His eyes prickle.

A knock sounds.

Arthur walks into the hall. He whispers, “I'll open, stay behind.”

Merlin realises he should do as he's told, but the truth of it is that it doesn't come easy. If he does obey, he's putting Arthur at risk and in the line of fire. The last time he did something like that, Mordred died. He can see it, Mordred's lax body huddled in the dark of the car. He can feel it; his waxy skin as Merlin took his pulse. He tastes the moment again. Though the lights are on, he can only see darkness and, though Arthur's moving right next to him, Merlin can only sense stasis. “Arthur--”

As Arthur leans over to open the door, Merlin dives forward.

“Um, hi,” Sefa says, shifting from foot to foot. “I hope you remember me?”

With the cover of the door, Arthur holsters the gun.

Merlin says, “Yes. Yes of course, I do.”

“Good, good.” Sefa rubs her hands together. “Look, I don't want to intrude on you and your--” She glances at Arthur. “--friend, but I just wanted to invite your round? To my barbecue next Saturday.” She points at her house. “All my neighbours are coming – Joe and Linda and Mab – and I thought to myself I should invite you too.”

“I see.” Merlin has no idea what the rules are when it comes to living in witness protection, so he gives Arthur a glance. “I, um, will let you know.”

“Yes, of course,” Sefa says. “Take your time to think about it.” She breathes out. “I'm just next door.”

When she's gone, Arthur puts his gun away and Merlin slumps against the wall.

***

 

The eggs starts sticking to the pan and Merlin scrambles them methodically. When the doorbell sounds, Merlin turns off the flame and goes to the door. He doesn't get pent up about it. He does tense a little, but he doesn't sweat and his heart rate remains overall steady. He doesn't ask who it is. It's a moot point, but he checks through the spy-hole.

Constable Smith smiles at him through the door.

When Merlin opens the door, she says, “May I?”

Merlin steps back. “It's not really my place, is it?” He almost regrets his moody response when he sees Constable Smith's face fall. Almost.

“Oh. I'm sorry, I only want you to feel comfortable here.”

They move to the kitchen. Since the eggs are more or less done, Merlin offers the Constable a portion, but she refuses with a polite smile and a slight shake of the head. It makes her ringlets bounce.

Merlin heaps the eggs onto his plate, gets a fork from the drawer, and seats himself. He moves his food about, this way and that, in imprecise patterns that smear the dish with the buttery oiliness of the condiment. He forks some into his mouth but only does so desultorily. He doesn't drink either.

Outside cars brake and dogs bark. A bicycle's bell rings. Constable Smith sits quietly throughout.

Merlin lays his fork and knife on the edge of the plate and says, “I've been watching the news.”

Constable Smith frowns. “The news?”

“And there's nothing.” With time passing, Mordred's murder has been mentioned less and less. When Merlin looks now, more often than not the case is not reported on at all. “I have no way of knowing if they're moving forward with their investigation or not.”

“I’m afraid we can't talk about that,” Constable Smith says. “I must follow orders.”

So that's above Guinevere Smith's pay grade. Merlin wonders if it's above Arthur's and if it wasn't, if Arthur would tell him. “I can't live like this.”

“Mr Ambrose...”

“I have to know they're doing something,” Merlin says, flattening both hands on the table. “I need to see this through.”

Constable Smith licks her lips. She swipes her hand in an arc on the table, her movement haphazard, absent-minded. “There's a reason I've come today.” She holds his gaze. “You have gone through a lot, Mr Ambrose.”

“You know that's not my name,” Merlin says.

She nods. “I do, but that's all part of the process.” Her hands still. “That's why it's advisable you see someone to talk about it.”

Merlin knows the answer already, but asks for the hell of it. “What kind of someone?”

“A specialist.” Constable Smith's mouth draws itself in a grimace. “A doctor.”

“A shrink.” Merlin's one for telling the truth; for not mincing words. It doesn't help you in journalism; it won't help you in life. “You think I should see a shrink.”

“I’m here to tell you about some of your options.” She looks away. “I didn't mean to come across as patronising.”

“No.” Merlin leans away from the table, squeezes the top of his nose. “I’m sorry. I shouldn't have jumped on you. I don't even know why I did.” Or at least he doesn't want to question it. The crushing sense of helplessness, the uselessness of the man he's become, sitting here in the shadows while injustices are committed. He's never in his life felt so powerless to act fight the good fight. And that's what he's always been about. What that makes of him is not something he wishes to explore right now. “It's not a bad idea, though I'm not sure I want to follow that advice at the moment.” He's not sure he can speak without crumbling. “But thank you.”

“Well.” Constable Smith rises. “I just wanted you to be aware.”

“You're going?” Merlin asks, pulling himself to his feet too. “Are you sure you don't want something?”

“Yes.” Constable Smith roots in her pockets. “I should leave this with you.” She deposits something on the counter. It's paper, small, and folds in on itself. “The money for this month.”

Merlin looks down; his ears and neck radiate heat. His shoulders collapse into a downward bow. “Thank you.”

He follows Constable Smith to the door. Before she can make it out, he says, “I'm sorry.”

She smiles. “You already apologised and there was no need to in the first place.”

“No, there is.” He bites his lip, worries it with his tooth till he tastes the tang of blood. “And not just for what I said before.” He inhales through his nostrils loud enough for it to sound like a sniff. “I'm just not myself. I don't care for how I acted just now and I should not have been so curt with you. You’re only doing your job, trying to help.”

“Look, I failed too.” Constable Smith tucks her hair behind her ear and readjusts her cap. “I just barged in here without really thinking about what you have been through. I ought to know that things aren’t easy from that perch. I didn't have to live through what you did.”

Merlin scrunches up his face. “What? No! I reacted badly. I was angry and dismissive. That was no way to behave towards you.”

She sighs. “I could have tried to see things from your perspective, thought about how I could best help you rather than assuming that what works for me would work for you. I should've, but I didn't.”

“Constable Smith--”

She eases a smile onto her face. “Gwen.”

“Gwen,” Merlin says, shifting his weight forwards then back. “I shouldn't have snapped. That’s on me, not on you.”

“You didn't snap.” She wraps her hand around his wrist. “Look, let's just agree that I might have broken it to you more gently, and you might have taken it better.”

Merlin doesn't really want to argue the point further. He's not even sure he's got a point anymore. But his face has eased into a smile to match Gwen’s. “Okay, all right.” He extends his hand. “Peace?”

Gwen takes it, nodding. “Peace.”

 

*****

The house is as different from the one Merlin occupies as night is from day. Bright colours cover the walls, rugs and carpets spread over the floors, furniture clutters the spaces, and knick-knacks lie on every available surface. There are too many pieces belonging to too many different styles, porcelain miniatures, cheap holiday mementoes, modern Ikea decorations.

The hall and lounge bustle with people. Some migrate towards the kitchen and some go upstairs. A few drift through a set of open French windows, behind which a garden, wild with dark bushes, sprawls.

Once Sefa's greeted them, Arthur herds Merlin outside. They hover by the buffet table on which bowls and plates rest next to a big punch bowl. Arthur serves him a glass of punch and Merlin drinks it. It's sour and lemony, with a dash of spice in it. He wipes at his mouth, and asks Arthur, “Why am I here at all?”

Arthur pushes him towards the fence. When they have a bit of privacy, he says, “Because always saying no would arouse suspicions among your neighbours.” When someone runs by, Arthur goes silent, then he speaks again. “And because you can't sit at home watching the news all the time.”

“I get that,” Merlin says, staring at his glass. He swirls the contents so they slosh against the orange slice perching on the glass rim. “But I need to know what’s happening.”

“You don't though.” Arthur crowds him, his eyes ablaze. “It's in good hands.”

“How do I know that? Not knowing anything is killing me.” Merlin may not be shouting it, but he'd love to. “Tell me, Arthur, how do I know it’s in good hands?”

Arthur's eyes widen with understanding and his forehead creases. “I can't talk to you about the investigation. You know that I can't tell you anything.”

“Yes, I do.” Merlin doesn't blame Arthur. “But look at it from where I'm standing. I'm in the dark. There's no word about my situation anywhere. My whole life used to be filled with seeking the truth, getting to the heart of things. Instead, I'm trapped within four blank walls, getting precious little news but the tidbits they share on the telly, and the odds of me actually getting in the know are bleak--”

Arthur grabs his forearms, squeezes to stop the rush of words. “Merlin, I--”

As she comes over, Sefa breaks a twig underfoot. “Is everything alright, Wyllt?”

“Yeah.” Merlin's grip on his glass tightens, but he smiles. “Everything's fine. Great party.”

“We're having a limbo contest over there.” She gestures at a wilder area of the garden, at opposite ends from the barbecue stand. “Would you like to join?”

“Yes, sure.” Merlin hoists his drink up to indicate he's not done with it. “In a moment.”

“Right.” Leaves rustle under Sefa's shoes. “We'll be waiting.” She hesitates. “Your boyfriend can come too, if he wants.”

Before Merlin or Arthur can reply, she goes back to her friends.

Merlin blinks after her. “Boyfriend.”

Arthur steps back, looks at him with eyebrows raised. Then he straightens, his face loses all expression and he sets his jaw, giving a sharp nod. “Let her believe that. It explains my comings and goings anyway.”

“You're okay with that?” Merlin doesn't believe Arthur'd fail to make use of such an assumption if it served his purposes, but the words leave his mouth all the same. “Good to know.”

“Why wouldn't I be okay with it?” Arthur's head snaps up and his eyes flare. “You'd be someone to take pride in.”

“Me? Would I?” Merlin isn't sure if he's asking for real, or because he just needs to hear something good about himself.

“Yes. Absolutely.” Arthur's throat works. “Obviously that's all in theory.”

“Because you have a wife and child stashed somewhere?” Merlin looks at his glass when he says that.

“No.” Arthur's Adam's apple pushes down with a swallow. “Because of the position we're in.”

“Right, of course, right.” Merlin's quick to say that, to bite his tongue, and fill his mouth with drink. To stop his thoughts from drifting into directions he can't allow them to go. Because this isn't is life, and it's all temporary, and it's all a sham anyway. “I'd better go. Need to be taking part in the...”

“Yes.”

“Limbo.”

“Yes, that.”

Merlin gamely plays limbo, walking under the bar as it's progressively lowered. The music is lively, full of perky synth sounds, brisk with drums, issuing from a stereo that's been placed on a garden table. People have gathered round to watch. As the competition goes on, they chat and laugh, their eyes dancing in merriment.

When Merlin starts to get good at it, when he works his back closer to the ground, Sefa's guests start clapping, encouraging him with their chants. When he's done with his latest turn, Merlin rejoins the crowd, watches his last standing rival go under the bar. It's a younger girl, with hair in braids. She's good, daring, her body’s centre of gravity fuelling her success, a wide smile clapped on her face.

When she passes under without touching the bar, she throws her hands up in the air. “You're so good, girl,” they tell her. “Laurie the champion.”

With just the two of them still in it, Merlin's turn is next. Someone tells him to roll up his sleeves and the hem of his jeans, so he won't overbalance. Merlin complies, pulling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and fiddling with the bottom of his trousers. He goes under then, hands by his sides, body loose, legs spread widely. Perpendicular to the ground, he tips his body back.

He's almost through, when his gaze slides over to Arthur and he finds him watching keenly. That look burns, prickles his skin to a buzz, makes Merlin self-conscious, aware of himself, of the place he occupies, of the stretch of his limbs. His heart beats double time. He works his throat, closes his eyes, listens to the beat. He makes it through and Sefa's guests clap. When they ask for a last round, he waves his hands in denial. They insist.

The girl goes first. She doesn't brush the bar, though it's a near thing it's so low now. Merlin goes after her.

He knows could do it. Gravity isn't pulling him low and while the bar is inches from his nose it's not so far down he can't make it. But he throws it all the same. He moves a foot forward and loses his balance. It's easy then going down. He doesn't even have to fake.

Sefa's guests give him back pats and make encouraging noises, say he gave it his all. Merlin says he tried. When asked if he wants a rematch, he admits he'd rather watch. He wanders off, takes a drink from off the table.

When Arthur joins him, he says, “You did it on purpose.”

“I didn't feel like winning.”

Arthur nods, looks at the table spread. “I wish you'd felt differently about that.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, taking a more powerful swig of his drink. “Yeah.”

Over the course of the evening, Merlin doesn't eat, but he does chat with some of the people crowding Sefa's garden. He lies about his name, and he equivocates about his job. He skirts round and round most subjects so as to make sure he doesn't mention where he's from. Even so it's not easy. There's this engineer from Hull, a tall squat man with a two-day goatee and a baseball cap worn back to front, who says, “Yes, but your accent, there's some Welsh in it, but I can also hear London in it, am I wrong?”

“Not per se,” Merlin says. “I did work there for a while.”

“In the same field you're in now?”

Merlin waves his glass around, notices that it's empty, and fills it again. Before answering, he drains it. “More or less.”

The Hull engineer nods, waves his own beer around, says, “Remind me again, what was it, your field?”

“Editorial work.” Merlin has his police script to go by; plus, he doesn't think he should stray too far from the truth, just in case he's questioned. Parading his ignorance would prove his lies. “A bit of this and a bit of that.”

“Still finding your feet, eh,” the engineer from Hull says. “I remember how it used to be. Been through that myself. Look, if you care to be more precise about the nature of your editorial work, I could ask around. I've got friends in a publishing house and they could put in a good word for you.”

Merlin's still hemming and hawing, when Arthur says, “He'll think about it.”

“Do, do,” the engineer from Hull says. “I know from experience one could always use a leg up.”

Next Merlin says something perfunctory and the conversation draws to an end. Glass empty, Merlin goes to the buffet table again. He pours himself some wine-based cocktail that smells like fruit and looks like blood. As he downs it, he throws his head back.

The lantern lights swing and the grass curves. The air shimmers, giving objects far and close a halo. He puts down the glass and places his hand against his forehead. He blinks. As he steadies himself, the swaying of light and soil stops

“Perhaps you've had enough,” Arthur says, leaning against the table back first. “What do you think?”

“I think that I hate this.”

Arthur sighs. “Let me take you back.”

“I don't need an escort back.” Merlin hangs his head, breathes through his nostrils. “I shouldn't need it.”

“I know.” Arthur crosses his legs. “I get that you wish me gone, but I must come with.”

“I don't wish you gone.” Merlin looks to Arthur, can't quite help it. Arthur's expression doesn't morph, but a spark comes into his eyes and Merlin feels the relief of it deep in his ribcage. “I wish I hadn't...” He trails off. He can't say it here, can he? He must watch what he says, look over his shoulders. “It's just that--”

Arthur pushes off the table. “Let's say our goodbyes.”

Merlin can't walk straight. His head is heavy and his legs don't quite work like they should. They feel rubbery and weak at the joints, bendy, quite unwilling to do Merlin's bidding. Even so they take him over to Sefa, to whom he apologises, “Not used to mixing drinks. I've a bit of a headache.”

“It's all right.” Sefa kisses him on the cheek. “We can do this again another time.”

Once they're clear of the house, Merlin's knees give and he squats on the pavement, head in his hands. He sighs, curls his fingers inwards, and lets himself shake. He sobs, big hiccups of it, that bloom outwards from his chest.

Clothes brush against him, a palm splays on his back. Arthur says, “It's alright. Let yourself grieve.”

Merlin doesn't look up from his palms, but murmurs the words, “I don’t understand. Mordred wasn’t my family, he was barely a friend. He was a source. I have no call to grieve.”

“You do though.” Arthur moves his hand up and down his back. It's a well of warmth, the touch bracing, assured. At the same time it has a slowness about it that gives it a considerate quality. “You went through so much. Mourning isn’t always about losing someone close to you.”

Merlin puts his hands down, stares at them, inhales sharply through his nostrils. “I don't know what's up or down anymore.”

“I know.” Arthur's hand stills at the small of his back. “I know”

Merlin wipes at his eyes, at his nose. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I’m acting like an arse.”

“I'm here for you, Merlin,” Arthur says, hoisting him up, putting a hand under his shoulder. “All right?”

“I--” Merlin swallows and his throat is so clogged it's painful. “Thanks.”

Arthur walks him to the door of his current place, closes it behind them, and shepherds him into the bedroom. The bed itself is made, sheets crisp, their angles fitting seamlessly around the curve of the mattress. Arthur sits him on it, kneels, takes off Merlin’s shoes. When Arthur rises, he grabs Merlin's shirt and pulls it off his head. “You've never used the bed, have you?” he says, eyeing its state. “Not since the first night.”

“I like the sofa.” Merlin doesn't really. But he has no wish to explain. He can't tell Arthur he doesn't like the bed because it gives him nightmares or that he prefers the sofa because Arthur takes it sometimes. It's too complicated and he's not up for such tricky explanations. His tongue tastes foul and his words come out bunched together anyway. “It doesn't really matter.”

“It does.” Arthur cups his neck, the imprint of his touch trickling warmth. He lets go, pulls the duvet back. “Go under.”

“I'd rather not sleep here.” When he says that, Merlin looks at the floor. “But thanks for looking after me.”

“Nonsense, Merlin.” Arthur spears him with a look. “You need a decent night's sleep. It's going to help.”

Maybe, perhaps, but Merlin'd rather not try. “It's okay. I swear I'll sleep it off.” At this point he's so soused he's sure he'll fall asleep even if he takes the floor. He'd just rather not court disaster.

“Why can't you sleep here?” Arthur asks, walking round the corner of the bed. “This place surely has no associations.”

Merlin doesn't want to tell the truth, he wants to keep it close to his chest, but he finds himself blabbing all the same. “Nightmares, that's why.”

“Would it help if the circumstances were different?” Arthur asks.

“You mean if I was back home and I could ring Freya and Gwaine--” Merlin shifts and the mattress sighs. “Or even my mother.” He grimaces.

Arthur sits next to him, with his legs out and his feet firmly planted on the floor. “Would it help if I stayed?”

“Don't you have to, I don't know--” Merlin lifts his shoulders. “Go?”

“No,” Arthur says, “not tonight.”

Merlin pulls down his jeans, fits under the covers. He watches as Arthur goes to the bathroom, listens to the water of the shower running. It's a steady rhythmic sound, lulling in its nature. Merlin focuses on it, lets his consciousness centre on it, on the ordinariness of it, the presence it entails. When Arthur comes back, his hair is wet, his hands pink from the warmth of the water. His clothes are back on, damp at his pecs and belly where he failed to dry properly. The fabric contours his shape, the bulk of muscle, the softness of flesh.

As Arthur circles the bed, he doesn't strip. With a duvet rustle, he lies down next to Merlin, but stays on top of the covers rather than under them.

Though the need for sleep and the alcohol in his system weighs Merlin down and makes him sluggish, he mutters. “ I can sleep alone, you know.”

“I--” Arthur lets out a breath. “I'd rather you didn't.”

“If you're uncomfortable--” Merlin starts.

“I'm not,” Arthur says, turning on his side so he's facing Merlin. “I swear I'm not.”

“Because if you are, I'd understand if you wanted to go, or take the sofa.” Merlin craves Arthur’s warmth as it seeps over from across the sheet. His bulk morphs the shape of the room, alters the geography of the bed, makes of it a different space entirely. “I mean really, I can look after myself.”

“Decision’s made.” Arthur turns again. His body settles into stillness, but it's only a surface thing, because he's set to a fine tremble that carries even if they don't touch. “I'm staying.”

Merlin can sense Arthur's tenseness, hopes he's done nothing to provoke it. He can feel the thrum of it, making Arthur uncomfortable, straining the fabric of their strange relationship. He would do anything not to feel Arthur’s distress, because Arthur's been a rock to him so far, almost, he would like to be able to say, a friend. Though that's perhaps a definition he shouldn't force, not when it's Arthur's actual job to make sure Merlin doesn't break down in so many pieces. Still, he can't let it go. “All right,” he says. “I promise not to bother you.”

Arthur's gaze softens at the edges, takes on a different quality, and he says, “You're no bother.”

“Thank you for lying through your teeth.”

“I'm not,” Arthur says, placing a hand on his stomach. “I truly am not.”

Silence falls between them. The street outside is full with the noises of night. The rubbish collection van lurches into the street, music from Sefa's party drifts by, a dog howls. Listening to the various strands of this concerto sends Merlin into a near doze, but he pinches himself awake. Resettling on the pillow, Merlin stares at the ceiling, at the shadows that cut it up in dark lozenges. “There's something I want to ask you.”

Arthur makes a noise in his throat.

Merlin takes it as an encouragement to speak. “If you make any progress with the investigation, could you tell me?”

Arthur's ribcage lifts. “Merlin, we've talked about it before.”

Merlin is aware and, if the circumstances were different, he wouldn't ask. “Please, Arthur. For my peace of mind.”

“As long as you promise to leave it entirely in our hands.” Arthur shifts and the bed creaks. “Then, I'll tell you if there's any breakthrough.”

Merlin reaches out a hand. “Deal.”

“Deal.”

Arthur's palm is hot and buoying.

 

*****

When Merlin wakes, Arthur is pulling on a shirt.

“You're still there,” Merlin says, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Yes.” Arthur sits on the bed, slides on a pair of running shoes. “It's my free day today.”

“Oh.” Merlin doesn't know what to say, what that means. “I see.”

“Actually--” Arthur tightens the laces of his trainers. “--I've got a few days.”

Merlin sits up. “That's good, isn't it?” Arthur surely deserves a break. “It'll do you good.”

With a push off the bed, Arthur's on his feet and turns around. “Yes. I've been looking forward to it.”

Merlin remembers working himself to such level of tiredness that sometimes all he had to get him through that last edit, that last tramp to meet a contact, was the promise of a free weekend, an afternoon holiday. “I'm sure. You must have done a lot of planning.”

Arthur answers that with a blank face. “I've been thinking we should go running.”

“What?” Merlin's brow knits. “Come again?”

“You heard me.” Arthur crosses his arms. “You should come running with me. Today.” He purses his lips, frowns. “You should make it a routine. It'll give you purpose, make you stronger.”

“Arthur, I haven't jogged in I don't know how long.” Well, since last year, Merlin thinks, when he got on the Webster case. “I can't just up and do it again.”

“Oh yes, you can.” Arthur pulls the covers off him. “That's exactly what you need to do.”

The sun shines in a sky so azure it's white at the edges. Clouds crease it in places and are quickly blown off by a breeze that comes from the sea. Rain threatens the sky in the middle distance. The path draws away from the town where they parked Arthur’s car at the head of the running trail, and follows the coastline, the abbey ruins perching on top of the promontory, the heather-clad heights of Kettleness towering over in the opposite direction.

As he runs alongside Arthur, the brine-heavy sea air oozes deep into Merlin's lungs, drowns them in its lightness. With Arthur keeping pace jogging is easier than Merlin had thought it would be. He matches his footfalls to Arthur's and he sucks in air at the same time Arthur does. Their arms go up and fall back in unison and their feet hit the ground simultaneously.

Feet thudding, they run along the earth track. Because of earlier rains, the soil is compact and there's no dust at all. Greenery stretches on one side of them while the sea whispers on the other. Fishing boats bob close to shore where dark sand extends at ocean level. Birds glide down and catch fish from off the surface of the waves. With their prey in their beaks, they perch on jetty poles and on the gunwales of anchored dinghies.

Between one gulp of air and the next Merlin takes it all in, the sparse but intensely green vegetation, the shadows of dilapidated stone masonry rising northwards on the peak, the animal life that strikes forward here and there in the shape of a squirrel or hare.

He has to concentrate on those elements to keep his pace. So far tuning his stride to Arthur’s has helped him push far, but now his calves are tight and his muscles strain. He breathes faster too, sucking in air more and more often, and that means he hasn't got it in him to go on much longer. A gentle rain begins to fall, cooling his skin.

As if he knows this, Arthur slows down. “There's a town over there.” His voice is low, a little strained, but not overly so. “We could stop, have a pint.”

“Have some food.” Merlin wouldn't be averse to putting something in his stomach. “Fish.”

“Fish.” Arthur wipes at his mouth. “Yes, that would do.”

Runswick is no more than a hamlet formed by brick and stone houses that almost tumble towards the line of shoals. Red roofs shimmer under a light drizzle and chimneys push their smoke upwards. Children play on the rocks, fishing, jumping from boulder to boulder. A couple strolls hand in hand along the strand, leaving the imprint of their bare feet in their wake.

The only pub the hamlet has on offer belongs to the Royal Hotel, a white-washed stone structure fronted by three sash windows on whose ledges geranium pots bloom wild red. The hotel itself can be got at by way of stairs that border the promenade. Wooden benches flank the door. They're wet, a glossy black, that looks smooth, newly varnished over.

Arthur and Merlin are lucky. In spite of the turning weather they nab the table closest to the fireplace. A big log burns in the back of it and smaller ones lie underneath forming the kindling. A grate shields them from the worst of the heat, making it pleasantly toasty, but not too warm.

“A pint of bitter alright with you?” Arthur asks.

“I'll get it.” It's true that Merlin only has the money the police gives him, but he wants to do this for Arthur, like he's a normal person, out for drinks with a mate. “I want to.”

Arthur holds his hand palm up. “I insist.”

Before Merlin can object, Arthur's whirled round and made for the bar. Short of tackling him to the floor or shouting across the common room, Merlin can't do anything to stop him. Shoulders slumping, Merlin sits at their table and plays with the placemats. Their corners curl and come apart while concentric ring stains mar their surface. He's trying to make out the last letter making up the logo, when Arthur comes back, bearing two steins. He's smiling from ear to ear, his face stained red from the run, his hair a little damp at the front because of the drizzle. “The waitress kept wrinkling her nose at me. I must smell,” Arthur says, placing the glasses on the table's top. “So I placed as quick an order as I could.”

“It's alright, really.” Merlin's fine with almost everything. He's even hungry, which is a far cry more than he's been able to say lately.

“I got us both fish and chips,” Arthur says, taking a careful sip of his beer. “With the sea so close at hand...” He looks at the window. It's fogged up now. “And all that talk before, I thought we should.”

“The fish is probably frozen,” Merlin says. He doesn't touch his beer, won't until he's had something to put in his stomach. He's not going for a repeat of the mistake he made the other night. Arthur deserves better than that, especially on his free time. “Just a warning.”

His eyes wrinkling at the corners, Arthur hisses a laugh. “Ah and there goes hope.”

The fish may have been frozen but the batter is crispy, not at all oily and clouds of steam rise from the fillet when Merlin breaks it in half. He eats in small pieces, with his hands, waiting for the flavour to burst on his tongue, for the buttery taste of the flesh to flood his mouth. The potatoes he spears with his fork, dousing them with salt and butter till they're exactly right.

Arthur watches him with a smile on his lips. He eats faster himself, shoving forkfuls into his mouth. “Was I right, or was I right?”

Merlin makes big eyes at him. “About what?”

“About going running.”

Merlin allows himself a drink. “You weren't entirely wrong.”

“So you liked it?” Arthur's mouth curls upwards.

“I didn't dislike it.” Merlin picks up another piece of fish and puts it in his mouth. He chews, swallows. “Though I'll have to say the scenery helped.”

Arthur cocks his head. “The scenery?”

“The shell of the abbey.” Merlin gestures with his hands. They're sticky and he probably shouldn't make a show of them in the state they're in, but he can't stop himself. “The sea, the fauna, the soughing heather beds. It's all striking. Potent.”

“Now I know why you became a writer,” Arthur says, ducking his head.

“Did I just wax lyrical?” Merlin wipes his hands on a napkin, greasy fingertips first, shakes his head. “I didn't mean to. It's just beautiful around here and if I was here for any other reason--” He watches the room and finds that no one is listening, not the fisherman in the corner still wrapped in his oilskins, not the family with the small kid refusing to eat his greens, and not the girl texting at furious speed. “I would have loved it here, digging up the history – I'm sure the abbey must have a ghost – go over the area hamlet by hamlet. I'd have liked it. Of course--” He winces. “I'm here for all the wrong reasons.”

Arthur puts his chin on his hand, studies him, presses his lips together. “I’m sorry you’re not happy. I can’t imagine anyone would be given the circumstances.” He gestures with his other hand. “But I'd hoped...”

“I'm fine.” Arthur looks like he wants to say more so Merlin pre-empts him. “I know what you're about to say, but I haven't thought about my situation at all today.” Merlin knows that's not a state that can last long, that something will inevitably remind him. “And I have you to thank for that.”

Arthur looks down. “And the beauty of the local scenery, don't forget.”

“And that,” Merlin says with a soft smile, though he's aware it's only partly the view, that Arthur's got a lot to do with his good mood, perhaps more than the place itself. “That's certainly memorable.”

“So tell me about the abbey ghost,” Arthur says. “What kind of spirit do you reckon it is?”

“Well, with the history of the place, it's bound to be a Viking.”

“Ah, nah, I'm not sure you've got it right there, Merlin.” Arthur feasts on a chip he's salted to hell and back. “I feel like it's too obvious.”

“A suicidal monk then,” Merlin says, his face growing hotter with the absurdity of his theory. “Forced to take vows because he was a cadet’s son. Or maybe it's a frustrated miniaturist, haunting the library so he can perfect the work he never finished in life.”

“Now that's more inventive.”

The rest of his fish gets cold and he doesn't mind a bit. Merlin doesn't finish it. But it's not because he isn't enjoying it, the portion is merely too big. He does continue preying on the chips though. As he prattles on, he munches on them.

“Well, it's all about our perception of what's memorable,” Merlin says. “What's spooky. What's uncanny.”

“And what is?” Arthur asks, tilting his head.

“Freud had his theories,” Merlin says. “Jung had his about archetypes, though his idea had more to do with universal--” He makes air quotes. “'Primitive patterns’.” He blushes. “I personally think they also feed most of our myths and legends. Like, I don't know, the pure knight, the sage king, the virtuous maiden. So you'd get Parzifal, the Fisher King, the grail bearers. And that's only Western myths.”

“You need to delve deeper, Merlin.” Arthur watches him, his head supported by thumb and index finger. “You haven't sold me on your ideas.”

Merlin talks longer than he's done in ages about myths and legends and the various perceptions of them. The last time he can clearly remember philosophising like this he had been on Freya's balcony, one night in Gwaine's company, with their breath smelling like gin from the Tesco Express round the corner, stars shining powerfully overhead and each exhale misting over. Merlin had talked about Atlantis and utopias then. Gwaine had elbowed him in the side, saying he was drunk. Merlin'd admitted he probably was.

Arthur doesn't tell Merlin he's raving, that he's spouting bullshit. He asks questions, pokes and probes at Merlin's theories, nods and watches him as if he's really paying attention, as if he appreciates his speculation. It might not be true. Odds are Arthur probably considers this boring. But he doesn't let that show and that makes Merlin feel as if something that had been missing has now slotted back into place.

They finish their pints and order a second round. Merlin barely skims his, Arthur doesn't consume the whole of his either. After a leisurely walk back to where they left the car, they start the drive back towards Whitby. The sun is orange now, going low on the sky, glazing the air with a golden patina that shimmers with a post rain rainbow.

Merlin points it out and says, “Now that one's bright.”

“Yeah it is.” Arthur slows the car, signals, and stops on the shoulder.

“Why have we stopped?” Merlin blinks at Arthur.

“Because,” Arthur says, killing the engine. “Sometimes you've got to stop and smell the flowers.”

“Huh?” Merlin's brow crinkles.

Arthur opens the car door and says, “That was metaphorical. But I suppose you got that.”

Merlin watches as Arthur walks to the guardrail. He stops, rolls his shoulders back and shields his eyes against the sunset.

Muttering under his breath, Merlin fiddles with the catch of his seatbelt. It releases with a thwack. He opens the car door and joins Arthur. He has a lot of questions but they don't tumble out because the rainbow snags his attention, its colours mellowing one into the other, its shimmer fraying at the edges. 

He says, “Moment in time.”

Arthur shifts, looks sideways at Merlin. “Yeah.”

 

***** 

Malagant Headquarters, London

 

Blowing air through his mouth, hands in his pockets and shoulders up, Dagr paces up and down. He purposefully digs his muddy heels in the fancy carpet, toes at its fringes, rubs at the design contours with the thick of his soles.

As he does this, the secretary, a classy bird with glacially blond hair up in a knot and tightly pursed lips, scowls at him. From time to time she takes a note in her big stylised diary or she fiddles with the flat keyboard of an Apple computer, but she always remembers to lift her eyes to him and frown.

At the end of another one his tours of the white room, Dagr walks up to her desk. “Hey, love, fancy a little chat?”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the secretary says, “I can't possibly do that. It's against the rules...”

“Oh, come on.” He places a hand flat on the desk. It's as annoyingly spic and span as the rest of the anteroom. “You can spare me a couple of minutes. I'm sure your boss--” He clacks his tongue and swivels his gaze towards the tall set of laminated doors to their right. “--won't mind.”

“There's a magazine rack over there.” She lifts her chin in its direction. “And I'm sure Mr Odin will receive you in a moment, sir.”

Dagr slaps his palm on the desk counter, making her jump. “Oh we both know he won't. He's letting me steam, ain't he? He's making a point.” He laughs and it comes out properly raucous. “What the boss doesn't get is that I've got him by the balls.” He snaps his palm into a closed fist. “And that I matter far more than the likes of him may think.”

Just as the secretary recoils blinking, the door to Odin's office swings open. Odin himself is dressed to the nines in a pin striped suit, black tie pinned by a golden trinket, and leather shoes having such a shine they catch the neon lights of the office. “You can come in now,” he says, squaring himself in the doorway. While he's large about the shoulders, he doesn't make as much of an impression as he thinks he does. “I've got a few minutes for you.”

Dagr winks at the secretary, who gives him the gimlet eye, and, whistling, walks past Odin and into his office.

Odin closes the door, straightens his jacket and strides towards his desk. Instead of sitting in the chair, he roosts on the edge of the desk, one leg bent, the crease of his trousers as straight as a bayonet, his hands clasped together. A thick ring with rounded edges and a stone shines on his finger.

Dagr suppresses the urge to cut it off his index, sits in one of the ergonomic chairs with his knees spread wide, and says, “Nice of you to find five minutes for me on your precious schedule.”

Odin coughs into his fist. “It's not a question of that and I'd appreciate it if you didn't harass my secretary.”

“Why she's a fit bit of alright.” Dagr shrugs his shoulders. “Whatever have you got her there for otherwise?”

Odin's eyes narrow. “That doesn't concern you.”

“Oh I see, you're fucking her on the side.” Dagr licks his lips from corner to corner. “Well, that ain't none of my business so to speak. I'm here for another reason.”

“Yes.” Odin's voice thickens with annoyance. “You've got to explain why you haven't finished your job when you were provided with every tool to accomplish it. Would you care to elucidate?”

“Is that corporate talk?”

Odin's mouth thins sharply. “No, it's a simple direct question.”

“Not so direct, if you ask me.” Dagr doesn't like it when toffs equivocate.

“Where is he?” Odin kicks the heel of his shoe against the front panel of his desk. “That's what I want to know.”

Dagr opens his hands and exhales air with a pop. “He's vanished. There's no trace of Emrys anywhere.”

“That's impossible.” Odin shifts a hole puncher from one side of his desk to the other. “Nobody vanishes.”

“Well, he's done it.” Dagr is no idiot. Actually, he's one of the best at his job, so Odin here's got no fish to fry. “He never went back home. Not since that night.”

“The night you and your associates lost him, you mean.” Odin buffs his nail.

“Yeah, that time he surprised us with that dive.” That had been crazy shit of the kind Dagr had never seen before. The Emrys bloke was a sitting duck one moment and gone the next. “That doesn't mean we haven't been on our guard since.”

“And yet,” Odin says, fanning his empty hands. “Nothing.”

“That's because he's disappeared.” Dagr sits straighter now. “He never went back home. He hasn't put in a single day at work in months. He hasn't contacted his family or his friends.” Dagr watched outside Emrys’ parents' place for days and also gave his ex's a fair stake out. “It's like he's vanished.”

“No man vanishes.” Odin's eyebrows pull together and upwards.

“No man can, not alone.” Dagr has thought about it long and hard. “He got help.”

“He got help.” Odin nods slowly, lower lips pushed out. “And can you tell me who helped him?”

“Look, this is big.” Dagr thinks he's backed up by facts here. “He can't have just upped and gone.”

“So what do you think happened?” Odin asks that with a lightness that is belied by his cold gaze. “I'd like to know that.”

“That one's easy.” Dagr rubs a finger up the side of his jaw, which he works left and right. “The police have got to have a hand in it. Without a network to fall back on you don't just disappear, do you?”

“Well, I don't know.” Odin's eyes flash. “What I do know is that you had a job, one for which you were paid very well.”

Dagr wants to object to that, because in his books he wasn't given half of what he needed. But he's going to be bigger than that and not mention it, at least not now. He says instead, “I did my job. I stopped that interfering little git.”

“But you failed to get the data back,” Odin says, pursing his lips. “And you failed to get the other ’interfering git’.”

“I will.” It's a point of honour by now. Dagr almost had him and if the bastard hadn't surprised him by leaping then he would have. Most of all he wouldn't be here, suffering a lecture from his so-called employer. “I swear I will get him.”

“Don't you think you should be doing something to effect that result?” Odin asks. “Find a way to force him out of hiding?”

“I don't see how.” Dagr has obviously considered that. “Not if he's with the police.”

“In business when we want to provoke a reaction, we start the rumour mill, say a new product of ours is ready to get into production when it's not.” Odin moves his hand about. “We sow the seeds.”

“So you want me to do what?” Dagr's brow knits in a web above his nose.

Odin stands. “That's up to you, of course.”

Dagr doesn't like this. He's being given too much room to manoeuvre, which also means there are too many ways this can go wrong. That's not something Dagr wants to open himself to, not when he's taking orders from such a wily fucker as Odin. “No, no. You paid for results, not to dictate how I do the job. You want me to do things your way, then it’s going to cost you more.”

Odin stares long and hard at Dagr before he stalks towards the door and opens it. “Our meeting is at an end.”

 

*****

Doctor Robertson makes a note on her pad. She uses her black pen to make notations, the one that is fat and has a golden cap that catches the light every time she moves it. The sheet curling inwards on top, the nib scratches on paper. “I feel like you're doing well, Mr Ambrose.”

Merlin's fingers curl on the armrest. “Thank you.”

“In the past two months you've made great strides,” Doctor Robertson says. “You describe a healthy routine--”

“That's thanks to Arthur,” Merlin says, before biting his tongue.

Doctor Robertson scribbles down a couple of lines. “You've a part time job.”

Merlin's got that one by lying through his teeth and presenting a false CV. Arthur had argued that there was nothing wrong with a little fibbing given that he can't tell the truth. “Yes, the library is nice.”

“You're stacking the new arrivals?”

“Yeah.” Merlin sinks his nails in the upholstery. He wonders if he'll leave indentations. “I'm good at the Dewey decimal system.”

“And you are being social.”

“Doctor Robertson, I'm not crazy.”

“Finna,” Doctor Robertson says. “Why do you think I was suggesting that?”

Merlin rounds his shoulders inwards. “No reason.” In answer to the look Doctor Robertson sends him, he adds, “I may be on the defensive, but I'm not an idiot.”

“Do you think you're overqualified for your part-time occupation?” Finna asks.

Merlin watches Finna's pen as it hovers over paper. “No. I don't.”

“So you're not unhappy with it?” Finna fills a page then turns to the next, blank one.

Merlin has no idea how he can answer that question. “I'm not unhappy.”

“Yet you chose a double negative to define your status.”

Merlin's aware. He looks away. “Not everything has hidden meaning, Finna.” A lot does, but not that. “I'm as well as can be expected.” Largely again thanks to Arthur. “There are times I don't even remember what happened. I just wake up, smile at the day if it's fine weather, go for my run, and pop into work. And it's all good.”

“That's an extremely positive statement,” Finna says, putting her pen down. Her hand, still up in the air, curls inwards. “If you feel there are no qualifiers...”

Merlin waits for her to complete the sentence but, when she doesn't, he understands that he's required to fill the gaps himself. “I'm doing fine.” Since they're playing that game, Merlin avoids saying 'rather' on purpose. Either way he surprises himself with how true that is, how there's no measure of equivocation, verbal sparring, in what he's telling Dr Robertson. “Far better than a lot of other people.” Mordred, for one, Merlin thinks, not without an internal frisson. “And while I do know that there are things I want that I don't have...” Justice, retribution, contact with his family, his friends. “I'm aware that certain things can't be helped and I'm not miserable.”

Dr Robertson nods. As she writes in her pad, she cocks her head. “Mr Ambrose, while I don't think we should entirely discontinue our sessions, I do believe that we don't need to have quite as many as we do now.”

Merlin ought to feel relief and in a way he does. It's hard to talk about himself, the new configuration his life has taken. Sorting himself out is challenging in and of itself so he doesn't feel the need for this level of sharing. He lives on the surface of things. But there's also something in him that wants to cling to the spur that Dr Robertson is. “Don't we?”

“No, Mr Ambrose.” Dr Robertson caps her pen. “We don't.”

Merlin takes a dizzying breath. He tries a smile on for size. He doesn't know if it fits him, but this seems like a moment that requires one. “Thank you, Dr Robertson.”

She stashes her pen in her bag and climbs to her feet. “Thank yourself, Mr Ambrose.”

Merlin wishes she'd say his name, his real one, but knows he can't wish that. She mustn't know it. “I'll walk you to the door.”

 

***** 

 

The slope is verdant, not too steep, with flowers growing here and there, their heads shaking in the breeze and raining white, yellow, and rose coloured petals. Gilded by a setting sun that's gone a vibrant orange, brown earth pokes up between the tossing grasses. Birds cartwheel in the sky, flapping their wings between the husks of walls that once made up the Abbey.

“Is this even allowed?” Merlin asks as he climbs the headland. “I mean surely it's well past closing time.”

“Yeah.” Arthur continues to go up the cliff, until the base of the Abbey walls become visible. “The Abbey closed to visitors a couple of hours ago.”

“Then oughtn't we, I don't know--” Merlin jogs upwards till he comes level with Arthur. “Not go any further?”

“No.” Arthur turns around and walks backwards. “I think we can bend the rules this once.”

Laughter bursts out of Merlin, sudden and easy. “I thought it wasn't your thing, being police and all.”

Arthur stops and smiles, the last of the sunlight burnishing his hair, contouring his face so its angles are mussed, softer. “I think...” He trails off as if he's lost steam, but then he rolls his shoulders back and says, “I think sometimes you must.”

Merlin watches him intently, trying to understand the ins and outs of him. In this moment in time understanding Arthur, de-constructing the core of him, seems like the most important thing in the world. At the realisation Merlin's face heats, his palms warm, and a spear goes through his throat. Breath fills his voice, when he asks, “And when is it that you must?”

“When it matters the most.”

They go up the last stretch and wander the ruins. The roof is long gone and grass grows where stone once was. Archways are still in place though, flanking naves and chambers bared by the weather, the elements, man's intervention in centuries long past. With the waning of sunlight the vast spaces shorten, the echoing aisles become smaller, more intimate. Though they can't see it, they can hear the sea dash and foam against the base of the promontory. They can catch the whistle of the wind between the piles of masonry.

Arthur takes a torch from his jacket pocket and sets it down base first so that its rays spread outward into the twilight. He spreads his jacket on the grass and looks at Merlin, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Oh, you want us to...” Merlin drops his gaze, traps his lower lip between his teeth. “It seems like a decent jacket. I really don't want to ruin it.”

“It doesn't matter,” Arthur says. “The jacket, it doesn't matter.”

Merlin sits on the grass on top of Arthur's parka. The damp seeps from the grass under it, making the fabric chilly, but Merlin doesn't mean to complain. “So why are we here?”

Arthur flings himself down too, his knees up, his elbows resting on them with his hands dangling in between his legs. He stares straight ahead and says, “Because we talked about it. Remember? Two months ago. We talked about the Abbey.”

“Yeah.” Merlin tips his head to the side to look at Arthur, the outlines of him losing their starkness in the penumbra. “Yes, I do. At the pub, down in Runswick.”

“And I thought--” Arthur spreads his hands wide. “I thought we should come here. That you should see this.” He turns to look at Merlin. “Because of what it did to you back then, because of the spark it put into you that day.”

“The spark?”

“The way you talked.” Arthur's clothing rustles as he shifts his shoulders upwards. “The way you... you laughed.”

Merlin's throat works. A clutch of something like pain but lighter in spite of its jagged angles grips his chest. “You remember that?”

“Yes.” Arthur doesn't shift his gaze, keeps it focused on Merlin. “Yes, I've been thinking about you, watching you.”

Blood rushes to Merlin's head and hands. “You have?”

“Yes.” Arthur's palms tighten in a knot and he hangs his head. “I couldn't help it.”

The words scald Merlin inside. He can't really stem the tide of their meaning, so he lets it flood over, move him. He leans forward and cups Arthur's face, stares him in the eye for the longest time, until there's no doubt about his intention, until a wash of emotion rinses him clean.

He kisses Arthur on the lips, no tongue.

Arthur doesn't draw back, but he breathes through his nostrils sharply. His lashes quiver.

So his fingers card in Arthur's hair, Merlin moves his hand, and he shifts his mouth on top of Arthur's. Arthur grabs his wrist. As if on a held breath, his body has gone stock still, and his eyes have widened, got shaded with a darkness Merlin can't plumb. At its presence, Merlin feels like he's been punched in the stomach and he's ready to start an apology, when Arthur says, “I can't. My job. My job is to protect you.”

Merlin's skin burns and he's not sure what with, whether it's lust, need, an awakening of his body to both, or shame. He can drop this. It would be easy. He could pass it off as nothing, as a wild gesture performed in a stolen moment, something done because of a whim, his situation, an urge that's nothing but passing.

But Merlin doesn't think it is. The pain in his chest is too real for that, the warmth inside him too good at chasing away the cold of the past few months. He must try this. He has to. “Is that it?” he asks. “Is that the only reason why you won't see where this goes?” He licks his lips, takes his time, because he's too much of a coward to rush this, get his answer and his rejection. “If you weren't protecting me, if I wasn't your job, would you give us a shot?”

Arthur purses his lips. He takes a deep sonorous breath and he says, “No. I wouldn't.”

Merlin's shoulders collapse, he runs his hands from calf to knee and then pushes off the ground.

Arthur looks straight ahead, but he grabs Merlin by the wrist. “You don't want me, Merlin, believe me.”

Merlin whirls round. “What?” After what he's just said, Merlin can't believe Arthur can be implying that. “Are you trying to convince me? Or are you trying to convince yourself?” Merlin shakes his head. “Look, I won't make this awkward again, I promise, no need for you to try and change my mind about what I’m feeling.”

Arthur tightens his grip on Merlin. “You only think you want me because I'm the only one you've got.” He lets go of Merlin. “I get it. I know who you are and I'm aware of what you've been through. That makes you think things, makes you believe you want me.” His eyes squeeze shut. “Desire me. But in truth you only want some human connection.”

“No!” Merlin turns around so he can do nothing but look at Arthur, so he won't be tempted to make it easy, let it wash over his head. “That's not true.”

“Why would you then?” Arthur asks, eyes wide with confusion.

“Why would I not?” Arthur's question makes no sense to Merlin at all. “You've been good to me. You’re considerate, honourable, hard-working. You make me smile, you make me think, you make me dream of what might be. You've helped me, Arthur. And I feel for you.” He sinks to his knees. “An immense big feeling. Is that not enough?”

Arthur swallows, lifts his gaze to Merlin's. There's something different in it, something raw and much more open. It seems to shift something in Arthur; to mirror the storm inside him. It spurs him into motion. With a surge, Arthur reaches up and pulls Merlin to his mouth, opening his lips with brushes of his own, dipping his tongue in, kissing him deeply, swallowing Merlin's breaths.

As they kiss, Merlin's pulse accelerates, and his breathing falls into line with Arthur's. Merlin strokes Arthur's back above the shirt, moves his palms in broad swipes meant to map the geography of Arthur, suss out the composition of him. Finding the shirt an obstacle to his learning, he tugs at the garment's fabric till it pulls free of his trousers. Free of its anchor, the shirt tents in the breeze. Merlin slips his palms underneath. He touches skin then, from tail bone upwards, feeling each breath, each protrusion, every segment of skin in between.

Arthur breaks the kiss then. He goes wide-eyed and gasps, looking up at Merlin with stupor written all across his face. “I shouldn't.” Yet Arthur places a whisper of kisses on his throat, along the side of his face and brow. “You should be off-limits for me.”

Merlin grips onto him. “And how does what I want score in this equation?”

“I’m meant to protect you,” Arthur says, but he's already cupped the back of his neck, gripped a fistful of his hair, and tilted Merlin's head back so that he's kissing the underside of his jaw, chasing shivers down Merlin's spine. “I should do my job.”

“I can look after myself.” Merlin cradles Arthur's cheeks, pulls up his face so he can read the intent in it. “And I can be trusted to know my mind.”

Arthur nods and stares at Merlin before pulling him in for a kiss that gets rough at the edges, breathless. Merlin falls back on the cool grass and takes Arthur with him, kissing and biting his neck, the swell of his Adam's apple, the base of his throat, only to find his lips again. He gasps and fumbles with Arthur's shirt, unbuttoning it one-handed, searching for more skin, bone, seeking a blessing. Merlin rubs Arthur's chest and stomach and his muscles flex and go taut. Hands catching on the bristles of hair growing between Arthur's pectorals, dusting them like light fleece, Merlin maps the outlines of him. With the touch, Arthur's belly flattens. Merlin's hands span lower, wander. He thumbs open Arthur's jeans.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, placing his hands on Merlin's hips, tangling their legs. “Merlin.”

Merlin snaps the other buttons open, tugs on Arthur's jeans so they come down a notch, catching on his hips. Sensing Arthur's intake of breath, the tenseness of him, together with the low burn taking place in his own guts, his own blood, he takes the base of Arthur's cock and wraps his hand around it. 

With his palm, he rubs him and Arthur hardens.

Arthur makes a sound then. He uses his leg for leverage and turns them so Merlin's lying again flat on his back. He pins Merlin's hands above his head, finds his throat, and rasps his lips along it, thrusting his hips against Merlin's, his cock half out, half swathed in cotton.

Deeply, searchingly, Arthur kisses him, with a note of possession to it, while at the same time pulling him close with a hand curving at Merlin's flank. He presses into Merlin with his whole weight, tangling them so close that Merlin breathes the air filtered through his lips, so that he tastes the taste of his flesh on his tongue, smells the scent of his sweat as it pools at the base of his throat. The combination fires something in Merlin, turns on a switch that gets him into a fine tremble. As Arthur's touch becomes hotter, air catches in Merlin's lungs. Arthur drops his weight, rolls his hips, his breath hitching to a rasp.

Under that pressure Merlin shuts his eyes. Arthur kisses him again, his tongue in Merlin's mouth, seeking his, brushing against it in overpasses and underpasses. His cock grazing his, Arthur bears down on Merlin. With clumsy fingers, Merlin pulls at Arthur’s jeans, lowers them, shoving them further down his hips until Arthur's cock slaps his belly.

Merlin grips him, twists hard, jacks him in a fast friction of palm on flesh. In small frenzied circles Arthur's hips hitch forward. He opens his mouth and he makes wet sounds, a stunned expression on his face, a frown crinkling his brow. Merlin holds his gaze, watches him so he can have his fill, though he doesn't think he ever could. He never will have enough of Arthur.

Mumbling, Arthur drops his head and, bracing his arms, he thrusts into Merlin's palm. His biceps swell and go sleek with sweat. His breath thins to sobs he bites back in his throat. There's a frantic, desperate quality to the snap of his hips now. Past the curve of his nose, his lips move but no words issue. As Arthur thrusts, his breath swoops past Merlin's ear in tepid wet dregs, stuttered puffs caught at the bottom of his lungs.

“Come on,” Merlin says, holding his cock in his hand, tightening his grip, pulling at it, till Arthur starts leaking at the tip and the flow doesn't stanch but grows. “Come on.”

Arthur’s body stutters, stiffens. His breath chokes out of him in a surprised near whistle and he comes, wetting Merlin's palm, his knuckles. He goes limp, settles on top of Merlin, his body damp with the warmth of the exertion, his belly rising and falling in counterpoint to Merlin's.

“We’re mad,” he says, burying his face in Merlin's neck. “This is mad.”

Merlin cups the back of his head, breathes in and out so he can make himself wait. Arthur lies in his arms, his muscles uncoiled, slack with repose, his skin smooth and damp along his back and neck, his hair slick. As Arthur comes down, Merlin moves from under him, strips, grass under his feet, wind swiping at his body, raising goose flesh. Arthur widens his eyes at him, says, “What if we get caught?”

Merlin deadpans, “They'll arrest us.”

Arthur peals into laughter, his shoulders shake. Sitting up, he undoes the laces of his trainers and pulls them off by the heels. Merlin peels his jeans off him, baring legs that are pale with lack of sunbathing, matted with pale hair from under the knee to the base of the foot. They stretch out together on the grass, with the breeze blanketing them, the last of the light dimming.

Merlin lies on top of Arthur, slipping his hand under his thighs, whispering them along the back of them in slow motions. They kiss each other. Arthur's lips are soft with the laxness of orgasm, quite sweet, and Merlin's heart nearly breaks with that. It's been such a long time since he kissed anyone and Arthur's attentive with it, slow, kind. Merlin feels for him all the more for it. His passion gets gentled with Arthur's tender touching.

Moving down Arthur's body, Merlin slides his mouth southwards along the cords of Arthur’s neck, nosing his way down his chest, down his belly. Arthur shudders, breathes so his flesh rises with the contact, meeting Merlin's mouth. His reactions thrill Merlin, churn his blood to a fast course, bring him to the edge. He strokes Arthur's thighs with his hands, mouths at his knees and up the inner cording of his thighs.

Arthur arches, groans.

Merlin spans his mouth along the softest patches of Arthur's skin, buries his head between his legs and licks and kisses, parting him, pushing his tongue as deep inside him as he can. Arthur lets him do it, makes small noises that are wild with breathlessness. They make Merlin harder, make it nearly impossible for him not to come.

With a need to calm down if for but a moment, he surfaces, clamps a hand round his cock, closes his eyes. He breathes in and out, his chest rising and falling in a fast tempo, a near shattering of the lungs. Arthur grabs him by the face, seizing his jaw, holding his head still, and looks right at him. His expression is clear, with the brilliance of a soft smile in it, with creases around his mouth and eyes, which fill with a kind of wonderment that would prompt Merlin to ask questions if he wasn't so far gone. He burrows into Merlin's lips with a soft grunt. Merlin strains to meet him for this kiss, trading soft touches and slow breaths that grow wilder by the moment. In a need for contact, a connection that won't break, he cradles Arthur with his body. 

Kissing him, Merlin thrusts his cock under Arthur's balls, between his legs, seeks friction with his skin. Merlin goes hot, a head to foot burn. His face flames and his blood scalds. As he withdraws and surges, his heartbeat goes haywire. Arthur tightens his legs, clamps his hands on Merlin’s waist, speaks encouragement. As he braces his torso, Merlin's shoulders rise and his head hangs down. He wants to speak, he wants to tell Arthur what he feels, about the lightening of his chest and the rush in his heart. The brightness he can taste on the tip of his tongue. But this is so good it hurts and he can't put it into words. He doesn't think he's been able to vocalise anything for a long time. Why should he now, when it's all bigger than he is, quite magnificent, life-altering? He bites his lip on a moan, anchors his palm on Arthur's hips and rocks his own forward and back.

As Merlin grunts, bucks, lunging forwards, Arthur wraps one of his arms tight around him, and lifts his face to his, forcing their eyes to meet. Something about Arthur's gaze punches Merlin right in the solar plexus. Merlin drifts on the sensation, planes on an intoxicating ebb. Unchecked, his body continues in its rhythm, in the pattern of sex, until the strain of it burns, and his heart contracts to a pain he can't stand. Going so cross-eyed he barely sees, he comes, gritting his teeth against the pleasure of it, lolling his head and sagging against Arthur when he's done.

For a time, Arthur remains still beneath Merlin, seemingly content with the closeness. Then Arthur runs his hand up Merlin’s back, along his arms from wrist to elbow. “Aren't you cold?”

“Still coming down,” Merlin tells him. He wants to nuzzle into Arthur's shoulder and stay wrapped up in post-coital bliss, but he's not sure he should try it now they're not having sex. He needs to sound Arthur for intimate boundaries. “I probably will be in a moment.”

Arthur cups his skull, studies him from up close, brushes their faces together, then gives a little shove, belly to belly. “Come on, let's get going.”

Merlin nods, but is slow to push off.

When they have their clothes back on, he's the one to fix the buttons Merlin fastened askew.

 

*****

The sun is warm on Merlin's back as he scoots forward on his knees, yanking at weeds and nettles. He piles them onto a mound at his side. By now it's shoulder tall, green and dry yellow filaments tangling and knotting together, deciduous flowers poking here and there. He tugs on another handful, clearing a patch of soft brown earth spotted with gravel. Another bunch of sprouts placed on top of the mound, he dabs at his forehead with his arm. One garden section more to go.

“Would you like a lemonade?” Sefa says, shielding her eyes against the sunlight. “Or a glass of water or a scoop of ice cream?”

“No thank you.” Merlin has a cut at the base of his fingers and half-moons of dirt wedge under his nails, but he doesn't mean to stop. “I'm fine.”

“Wyllt, you've been weeding and mowing for hours.” Sefa kneels by his side. “I feel a bit guilty.”

Merlin smiles. “I wanted to.” Edging and pruning have a rhythm to it. It's freeing in a way that's hard to explain. “It's not as if I didn't owe you one.”

“Because you got drunk at a party of mine?” She shakes her head. “Really, it can happen to the best of us. All's forgiven.”

He nods, buries his hands in the warm earth. “I just think you didn't deserve it, my behaviour.”

“We all have our ups and downs,” Sefa says, stripping a length of weed of its foliage. “Good neighbours get that, don't they?”

Merlin says, “I just wasn't myself.”

“And you are now?”

Merlin has wondered that for a while. He's not sure he's landed on the right answers, but then again he doesn't think they're necessary anymore. “I'm a different configuration of myself. I'm fine.”

“Fine enough for an ice cream?” Sefa's hand lands on his back.

“Yeah.” Merlin breathes out. “I suppose so.”

Sefa retreats into the house, where shadows hang. She leaves the door and window open. As she potters about, she passes by its frame. Sound spills from the kitchen. A radio song wafts its notes on the air. The tune is upbeat. As he shoves fistful of weeds into a shiny black bin liner, Merlin whistles under his breath. The news replaces the song line-up. Merlin is barely listening to it, when a name snags his attention.

He puts the bin liner down and wanders into the house, past the lounge where grey canvas sofas face each other, into the hall where orange lights paints the walls bright, and past it into the kitchen.

Sefa sprinkles nuts over scoops of pale ice cream.

The voice on the radio says, “Professor Aglain leaves no children. His ex-wife, Options Trading Expert Catherine Vassail, is at the moment unreachable for comment. Imperial College Rector, Alice Cohen, commented about the death of her former colleague and head of School of Public Health, saying she was shocked and deeply saddened by the news, but confident the police would ensure those responsible were caught.”

Cold pricks at Merlin lungs. “What did it say?”

Sefa turns around; her brow puckers. “What?”

“The radio.” Merlin cuts his gaze to it. “What did they say on the radio about Professor Aglain?”

“I was only half listening.” Sefa turns around and leans against the worktop. “I didn't catch the name.”

Merlin moves over to the radio. He picks it up. Hoping to land on another station that will be broadcasting the news, he fiddles with the tuning knob. Nothing but top 40 songs sound over the waves. He switches over to AM, but he gets nothing other than static. Slapping the radio back into place so that it's back panel slides off, he whirls around, leans against the dresser's side and palms his forehead.

“It mentioned a professor being found dead,” Sefa says, likely rattled by his frantic tinkering with the radio and the sharpness of his questions. “I didn't catch the details but I believe the police think he was murdered.”

Merlin looks up. For a moment his heart seizes and he wants to fall to his knees and cry. He knows he can't. Not just because he can't blow his cover, can't look mad, but because this means something and he must stay clear-headed, put two and two together. “I've got to go.” In a skid of tennis shoes soles, he goes to the door. “I've got to.”

Sefa's eyebrows float upwards. “What now?” She hugs herself with one arm and palms her throat. “I thought you wanted some ice-cream? Did the news on the radio upset you? We can talk about it.”

Merlin's shoulders go up. He should turn, but he doesn't. He hangs his head, squeezes his nose. “No, no, it’s OK.” He can think of no excuse, no lie. By now he ought to be able to spin a tale better than Pinocchio, but his thoughts are vortexing and, above all, he doesn't want to deceive Sefa. Somehow he's just made it up to her and he doesn't want to fib his way into her good graces. She doesn't deserve it. “I just have to go. I really must.”

He doesn't wait for her to say anything. He flies out of her house and crosses over to his. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies the patrol car perpetually staking it out, but ignores it. He's left the door open so he only needs to give it a push to enter his place. He makes a beeline for the kitchen and picks up the mobile he left lying on the counter and quickly thumbs Arthur's number.

A tinny voice tells him, “The mobile phone you have called is currently unavailable; please try again later.”

Merlin hangs up. Although he knows there's no point, he rings again. The same automated answer greets his ears. “Right,” Merlin says, staring at the mobile's screen. “Right, he's off somewhere.”

Merlin switches the phone off and leaves it in a drawer. He looks for the house keys and drops them in his pockets. He gives his hands a wash, swaps shirts, puts on joggers and trainers, and goes out again. As he walks down the pavement, car doors slam shut. Merlin doesn't look back, but assumes his police tail have started following him. To forget about them, he sticks earphones in his ears and takes to jogging. His breaths slice the air in an easy tempo. His feet impact the pavement centre sole, his tread steady. He's been running with Arthur for months now; he's found his body's groove. It comes easy these days.

Running past a bend in the road, he takes the slope at a jog. When he cocks his head backwards, an empty swath of road stretches out behind him. He balls his fists. No more tail. “Good.” Cold laps at his spine and his teeth worry at his lips. “This is good.”

He doesn't change his pace. As he runs, houses become sparser, further in between. Shrubs take to dotting the road and the air grows lighter in the absence of exhaust fumes. At the base of the cliff, the sea stretches out; the briny smell of it climbing to the top.

Merlin stops, breathes in and out, watches the far horizon. The sun is high, a perfect orange disc in an enamelled sky. It's a beautiful day; a day that looks and smells like paradise. Nature has played him false. Or maybe that's humanity. He doesn't know. He doesn't even want to parse it. Merlin shakes his head, cups his face in his hands, lets his shoulder rise and his head hang. For a moment he wishes he hadn't turned his phone off, that this burden – of Aglain's death, of choice – wasn't on him, but then he tells himself that it was the only viable option. He rubs his face, grunts, then drops his hands and sets off again.

The pub in Runswick is the same as it was on the day he came with Arthur. Since it's a sunny day, crowds fill it. There's a queue for the bar and people idle at the tables. As she’s on her way to one of corner benches, Merlin stops one of waitresses She carries a tray laden with tall honey-coloured beers and deep fried squid rings. She looks at him with a raised eyebrow and a pinched mouth.

“Could you tell me where the phones are?” Merlin wishes he'd reconnoitred the place before. He'd never thought he would need to.

The waitress sighs though the wrinkles around her mouth stay firmly in place. “In the back.” She tilts her head. “Down the corridor. It's an old payphone.”

“Thank you.” He gives her the biggest smile he can summon with the fear drumming through his body. “Truly.”

He doesn't wait for her reply; he shoulders his way past the bar and skids down the back hallway. Right at its mouth open the doors to the men's toilets. He walks past these and mid-way down the passageway's length. Hanging from the wall is a set of two old telephones. Their casings are metal, their sides covered in stickers. Tape stretches over the coin slot of one. Merlin volleys over to the second. With clammy hands he lifts the receiver. There's a signal.

“Thank God.”

He roots in his jacket pockets for coins. His fingers close on a bundle of cold metal roundels. He feeds the machine a few and keeps the rest in his palm. With two fingers he dials the number. It rings and rings and Merlin's about to hang up when Gwaine answers. “Kendall, this had better be important because I'm in the middle of the story of the century.”

When he hears Gwaine's voice, tears brim in Merlin's eyes His throat clogs and his chest clenches in on itself. “You can bet your arse it is.” Merlin smiles into the phone and it makes no sense. He's alone and Gwaine can't see him. He can't know how much his simple act of picking up the phone has gladdened Merlin. He has no reason to smile either, not with what he's got to say, but there you have it. “Or I wouldn't be contacting you now.”

A crash sounds on the line. “Shit, Merlin, shit, is that you?”

Merlin grips the receiver tight. “Look, Gwaine--” He dabs at his eyes. “It's not. Okay? It's not Merlin.”

“What the hell!” Gwaine says. “Merlin, I know it's you. I'd recognise that voice anywhere.”

“Well, you're wrong.” Merlin sobs into the phone. He's wanted nothing but to hear his real name spoken out loud by someone and now that Gwaine has done so, Merlin has to shut him up. It's unfair. “Gwaine, I need you to pay attention to what I'm saying all right? No matter how strange that is.”

“I'm hanging from your every word,” Gwaine says. “God, I've been asking after you. Gaius wouldn't say a word and no one else at the paper seemed to know. The police came. They raided your office. Marched away with boxfuls of your stuff.”

Merlin can well imagine. They probably wanted to verify his story. Maybe they wanted to check if Merlin had uncovered any lead that might help them in their own investigation. “Yes, but that doesn't matter now, Gwaine. None of it does.”

“But are you all right?” Gwaine asks.

“I am. I'm fine.” For that matter Merlin has had it too good, has been rather more okay with everything than he should have. Lately he's lived and breathed Arthur, the ins and outs of him, the relationship he's been offering him. It has gladdened him so much, filled his heart to such a bursting point, he's nearly forgotten everything else, the position he's really in. He's lowered his guard. He wonders what would have happened if he hadn't let himself clutch at that last straw of joy. Would professor Aglain still be alive? He has no way of knowing, but Merlin carries the weight of his death right on top of his shoulders. “You mustn't ask about any of that, Gwaine.”

“M--” Gwaine cuts himself off. “How can I do that? You're my friend.”

Merlin swallows thickly and his throat hurts with him. “And you're mine, Gwaine. That's the reason why I must ask something of you.”

“Name it.”

“I need you to warn my mum and dad,” Merlin says, envisioning what might happen to them if Gwaine doesn't. “And Freya too. You're all in danger. You need to watch out.”

“Wait, wait.” Gwaine breathes harshly through the receiver. “You can't say something like that and not come out with the whole story.”

“Gwaine, you know I can't.” Merlin spares his watch a glance. “As a matter of fact I've talked too long.”

“Shit, my friend,” Gwaine says. “You need to tell me more.”

“Just listen to the news.” Merlin is positive Gwaine can make the connection easily. He only need walk into the newsroom and become acquainted with titbits from all round the world. “And do as I ask, please.”

“I will.” Gwaine sounds breathy when he says that, as if he's just made a point of hushing a curse or a pained sob. “Just look after yourself, will you?”

“I promise.” Merlin isn't sure he can keep this one vow. He's not even certain he would if things took a strange turn. If ensuring justice is done means he's got to sacrifice himself, he will. But he doesn't want Gwaine to worry. He's doing enough of that already. “I've got to go now.”

“God speed, my friend,” Gwaine says. “God speed.”

**** 

 

The keyboard brightens when Ebor touches it, going all back-lit, but Ebor doesn't speak. He chugs at his beer, puts a dim sum in his mouth, and chews. A heap of wrappers, both plastic and paper, sits next to his elbow. At his feet the bin is full to the brim with takeaway cartons, soda cans, and used tissues. The laptop, a 17 inch screen behemoth, whirs on and on, but nothing changes.

Dagr pushes the plaid off the couch and hauls himself to his feet. “I'm going out.”

Ebor swivels his chair around, “What no! We're so close now.”

Dagr throws his hands up in the air. “No, we're not. It's been hours at least.”

“Look, you gave me a job to do,” Ebor says, “you could at least have the patience to let me do it.”

Dagr is one for results, not patience. “That's just talk.”

“It isn't.” Ebor taps in a few codes. “And we both know that.”

“I beg to differ!” Dagr has accomplished things, tangible ones, with verifiable effects. He's done his bit and believes asking for Ebor to do his shouldn't be too much. But techies are all alike. They've no idea what's a result and what's not. They just live in their make- believe world, don't they? “I got the professor, didn't I?” Much as Dagr had wished for it, he hadn't squealed like a pig. He'd said a sort of Zen prayer, one about peace and nature and more tripe of that kind, and put up as little resistance as a bunny rabbit. That's no fun. “You...” Dagr flips his palm so it faces downwards. “You got nothing.”

On the screen numbers flash, a quick succession of them, in vertical rows.

They mean bugger all to Dagr, but Ebor screws his chair round and starts tapping at the screen.

“Famous last words, you git.” Ebor grins as he squints at the screen. “Famous last words.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dagr has a notion Ebor is bullshitting him, but just in case he's not, he gets closer to the monitor. More and more gibberish scrolls onto it. “That's nothing but stupid numbers.”

“How wrong you are, mate,” Ebor says, opening a second window, which he fills with strings of commands. “This is the record for all calls placed from pay phones in Britain in the hours between your little intervention and now.”

Dagr has no idea how Ebor accessed that list and he doesn't much care. “It's still a needle in a haystack. I mean how many calls would we be talking about?”

“Seven hundred thousand three hundred and twenty three,” Ebor says, a smirk painted on his face. “That's how many.”

See, Dagr was right. This is completely useless. “And how are we supposed to know which one is our mark?” Dagr would very much like to get his hands on him. The Professor hadn't scratched the itch, but he bets the man who's already once escaped him would. “It's literally one in seven hundred thousand however how many.”

“Glad you can count past one.” Tongue sticking out at the corners of his mouth, Ebor taps at the keyboard. He enlarges a map and strokes the mouse repeatedly. “However we don't need to know which one of the seven hundred thousand it is.”

Ebor snorts. “Oh for God's sake, out with it or I swear I'll carve you a new face with that mouse of yours.”

“Just because you don't get it, there's no need to be so harsh.” Ebor tuts. “Look at this. This is the call record of those people we have bugged.”

“Emrys' family and his journo friends.” Dagr had nothing to do with actually bugging them. It was the kind of finicky tech job he never likes to have any part in. Too many little chips to be put in small cavities. Nothing requiring guts and a mean left hook. It was just as well Odin never asked him to. “Yeah, I remember them.”

Ebor pats the screen. “Good, because this is the list of the phone calls they made and received.”

“So what?” Dagr shrugs. “We already know they're not communicating.” If they had, Emrys would long be dead by now. “Haven't since this all started.”

“And that's where you're wrong.” Ebor highlights a sequences of numbers with his mouse. “See this call?” He cocks his head at Dagr, his eyes shining with bloody fucking pride at a job he thinks well done. “It lasted three minutes forty two seconds, and five milliseconds.” Ebor minimises the page with the numbers and opens another equally full of ciphers. He scrolls down the screen, going down at least ten or twenty pages. A highlight number stands out among all the rest. “See this one. This call lasted just as long and was placed at the exact same time the one Gwaine Kendall received.”

Dagr huffs. “It could be just a coincidence.”

“Yeah, you're right,” Ebor says, writing more commands. “That's why we're going to make sure.”

Dagr doesn't follow, but he isn't ready to admit that, no sir. “Naturally.”

“That's why we're going to listen to that phone call.” Ebor hovers the cursor hover a decibel graph. When Ebor presses play, voices sound. “And here it is...”

 _‘Kendall, this had better be important because I'm in the middle of the story of the century,’_ a man says. His tones are educated but there's some sort of lilt under them.

_‘You can bet your arse it is.’_

The voice is that of a young man. Dagr doesn't know it either, but he doesn't need to. The man who answered says it as clear as day, _‘…Merlin’._

“That's him.” Ebor smiles from ear to ear. “The man we're looking for.”

There's little doubt about that, but even so Dagr doesn't want to sound too enthusiastic. “Mmm, probably. I'll call the boss and see what he wants us to do.”

“What, no slap on the back--” Ebor screeches up a sound that's half a laugh, half indignation. “No well done? No acknowledgement?”

“Oh sod off, you musty prick,” Dagr says, fishing his phone out of his pocket and wandering off onto the balcony. The view is dismal, a backyard with razed yellow grass topped by the grey cement mass of a council estate walkway. Thank God he's got no interest in the sight. He dials and when the boss answers, Dagr says, “I've got news.”

“I told you not to call me on this line,” Odin tells him. “How many times do I need to remind you?”

Dagr adds Odin to the number of people whose neck he'd like to wring. He wants the money though, so he doesn't say what he really thinks. For now. It would be stupid. “We've located our man,” Dagr says.

“You've got an address?”

“Not exactly. We know where he placed a payphone call from.” Dagr is sure Ebor can track Emrys as far as the city he rang from. “But it won't be so hard now to zero in.”

“No, don't do anything directly.” Odin's voice doesn't shake. “We wait for him to come out of hiding.”

Dagr covers the microphone and mutters a curse under his breath. When he takes his hand away from the phone's surface, he says, “Then why have we been looking for him all this time?”

“All in good time.” Odin's voice stays flat. “Now we roughly know where he is, we can intercept him.”

“Intercept him.” Dagr had much rather ambush him in his hidey-hole like he did with the Professor. It's his speciality so to speak. “I don't think--”

“You're not paid to think,” Odin says. “We've lured him out with our first move. Now we can wait before we pounce.”

“Right.” Dagr itches to act, but he can be patient if he's paid enough. “Right.”

“I'll tell you how and when.” Odin hangs up.

Dagr curses him and pockets the phone.

 

**** 

 

When Merlin makes it back to it, Arthur's already at the house. He sits at the table with his arms laid on its worktop and his hands folded together. In profile his face is all stark angles, his mouth pinched into a thin line, his jaw jutting outwards, his eyes small and level. The moment Merlin enters the lounge, Arthur vaults off his chair and says, “You ditched your tail.”

Merlin feels no compulsion to lie. “Professor Aglain died.”

Arthur's lips flatten even more. “That's being looked into.”

“So you do know,” Merlin says, walking past him and into the kitchen. He lets the tap run and fills a glass with water. He turns around, leans against the worktop and empties the glass. It's cool enough to slake his thirst, but it does nothing for his burning forehead, his scalding skin. “You didn't tell me.”

“The police wanted to keep it quiet for as long as possible.” Arthur crosses his arms. “It didn't seem like something you could do anything about, so I opted for waiting before telling you.”

Merlin wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and glances away. “If the police were keeping it quiet, why did I hear about it on the radio? Besides, you promised.” A fracture line develops along the axis of Merlin's heart and the pain of it punches outwards. “You said you'd keep me updated.”

“About the likelihood of a court hearing,” Arthur says. “About your family!”

“This is important.” Merlin won't believe Arthur doesn't know that, that he isn't more than aware. The notion they're not on equal footing breaks him, pains him, leaves him high and dry. He wonders if it's time to doubt Arthur, doubt everything. “If they killed him, my family might be next!”

Arthur puts both hands up. “Your family is being protected. Aglain wasn't.”

“And that's your mistake.” Merlin walks towards Arthur and stabs a finger at his chest. He doesn't want to do it. He doesn't want to unmake them. He wishes he could take this all differently or that Arthur wasn't part of it. But, unfortunately, he is. “How can I trust the police not to mess it all up again when they let an innocent man die?”

“You did something,” Arthur says, reading his face with a keenness that goes deep. “That's why you lost your tail. That's why you risked your life.”

Merlin wonders how much that's worth if something happens to his family. “I phoned Gwaine.”

“You did what?” Arthur's pupils contract as if with pain and he grabs Merlin by the shoulders giving him a hefty shake. “Do you realise how foolish that was!”

“Yes!” Merlin throws his hands up in the air so Arthur's forced to step back. “Yes, I know how crazy that was, but I was scared, terrified actually.” Merlin hopes Arthur can get him, that he can see the ways he's cracking inside. Because disappointing Arthur, losing the bond they've made, would hurt him just as surely as a knife to the chest. “If risking myself helps my family, my friends, then that's all right by me!”

“But it isn't by me!” Though he's never done it before, Arthur shouts.

“What was I supposed to do?” Merlin shakes his head from side to side. “Wait for them to murder my parents? My friends?”

“You could've waited for me!” Arthur runs both hands through his hair. “You could've been more patient!”

“I tried getting in touch with you,” Merlin says, his voice like broken shards. “But you couldn't be reached and I didn't know what to do!”

Arthur's eyes go small. “I was being interviewed by my boss.” His shoulders round, the expanse of them narrowing. “I turned my phone off. I’m sorry.”

Merlin sighs, lets himself fall into a chair, hangs his head. “I couldn't stand by and do nothing.

“This might be a trap, Merlin.” He goes to his knees and reaches out as if to touch Merlin's leg, but then he drops his hand. “You do realise that, don't you?”

Merlin lifts his head. “Yes.” He licks his lips, makes fists of his hands. “If you were in my shoes, if your loved ones were in danger, would you have done any differently?”

Arthur head snaps back. “I...” He settles his gaze on Merlin and it loses some of the prickly edge it's worn since this conversation began. “I can't say that I would have.”

“Then you can see why I did it?” Merlin hopes Arthur can forgive him, because he doesn't want to lose what they've got. “You understand?”

“I can't say that I don't--” Leaning up, he touches his hand to Merlin's face, the pads of his fingers barely grazing skin. “But now we'll have to find a way to make sure you can get to the initial hearings for the court case unharmed.”

“The trial.” The word itself both drills hope into Merlin's soul and puts the weight of fear on it. “So it's taking place?”

“I told you,” Arthur says. “It is.”

“Well,” Merlin says, wishing with all his might that all of this might be over, that Mordred might be avenged and that he may patch things up with Arthur. Maybe when all's said and done, when order's restored, Arthur will forgive him. “Let's hope that justice is done then.”

****

Compared to London, Whitby's train station is small. An outer archway gives access to the main lobby. A café and bistro rise to its side. The back buildings are low and made of brick. All in all it has two platforms and five trains a day run to and from the town. There are no computerised displays, only split-flap boards. At least it's not dirty. The walkways aren't littered and the stairs smell like disinfectant. At nine pm the platform is almost empty. The station master walks its length, watch in hand, cap tilted low on his forehead. When he's come to its end, he retraces his steps and looks into one of the offices that faces onto the sidings via a small window. He chats about the weather to a woman in the office. She’s wearing a uniform blouse, her hair up in a ponytail.

“It's all very old-fashioned,” Merlin tells Arthur. “I'm waiting for him to blow the whistle any moment.”

Arthur turns around, faces the entryway. “Yeah.”

“It's almost calming.”

“Look, Merlin,” Arthur focuses on him completely. “I need you to listen.”

Even if Arthur's tone wasn't so guarded, Merlin would know to pay attention. “I'm all ears.”

“There's no direct train from here to London, so we'll have to change.” Arthur gives Merlin his tickets. “I don't think they can possibly know where exactly you'll be starting from. But it's a given that, with the trial proceedings beginning tomorrow, they'll be looking for you.”

Merlin twists the tickets in his grip. “I know. I'm prepared.”

“From here to Middlesbrough I'm going to stick to your side,” Arthur says, watching Merlin's face. “But from Middlesbrough on, I won't.”

Merlin blinks. “What, why?”

“They're going to look for two of us.” Arthur raises an eyebrow. “That's what they've been alerted to. What they expect.”

“How can you be so sure?” Merlin trusts Arthur with this, but he can't say his reasoning is crystal clear here. “How can you know?”

“It stands to reason.” As a man passes them, Arthur shifts them, so the conversation won't carry over to him. “They must know you're being protected. If they're smart, they'll have guessed you have a police shadow. If they don't see you with one, they may think it's not you.”

“But they know me by sight.” Merlin would like to think they don't remember his features, but he refuses to entertain that hope. “They're sure to spot me anyway.”

“A man mounting a train alone won't be what they're looking for,” Arthur says. “It may give us an advantage.”

“Right.” Merlin nods. “If you think it'll help, then I'll do it.”

“God knows I don't want to let you out of my sight,” Arthur says. “Not even for a moment.”

“No.” Merlin picks up his canvas bag. “I get that. Without me there's no case.”

Arthur touches his hand to Merlin's arm. “It's not for that.” Arthur meets Merlin’s eyes, his gaze intense. “Merlin, you must know it's not because of that.”

Something about Arthur's tone puts a strain to Merlin's heart, pains him deeply in ways that don't even show on the surface. “I thought… after what I did--”

“Because,” Arthur repeats, his eyes showing pain lines at the corners. “Nothing has changed for me.”

Merlin knows that's not true and something in his face must have shown.

Arthur speaks before Merlin can share his objections. “Was I angry? Yes. Was I angry with you? Yes. But that isn't fair, is it? You're not trained to handle situations like this and you responded to danger in the only way you knew. It's not my place to judge that. I won't.”

“So you don't resent me?” Merlin wants to ask quite another question, but he doesn't think he can weather the answer right now. He knows how the wrong one would shatter him to pieces. He can open himself up for that kind of pain when the trial is over. “Not at all.”

“Not you.” Arthur shifts his gaze onto the train. “Never you.”

They settle on the train on opposite seats. Arthur draws the blinds down and scowls at everyone who moves near. He doesn't speak to Merlin. It's all right though. Thoughts of the pre-trial hearing crowd Merlin's brain. He wonders what he'll have to say and how. The lawyers will brief him. This he knows. But even so he can't be certain he'll be able to stand under the fire of cross examination and get his point across. It would be funny, almost laugh-out-loud so, if he got to court in one piece and failed to give the kind of testimony that would secure the criminals to justice. He's still got to get there though, so all his imaginings, his picturing of Mordred's wan disappointed face, oozing a malignancy he never displayed in life, are probably all for nothing.

As planned, they change trains at Middlesbrough and then in York. They have first class tickets, which should grant them an emptier carriage, though the station itself bustles with people rushing for their trains, queuing at self-service machines. It's peak hour, so there's no guarantee of isolation.

Arthur takes a seat three rows away from Merlin's, on the other side of the carriage.

Merlin secures his bag in the overhead compartment and sits with his back straight. They're early and, aside from the cleaner, the wagon is empty. The cleaner rustles up used wrappers and candy paper, picks up stray plastic bottles and dented cola cans. Fingers straying towards the lining of his jacket, Arthur watches him. Merlin does too, body so tense it cramps.

Swiping away at one last tray, the cleaner shuffles into the next carriage.

Merlin's shoulders slump, but the tightness in his gut doesn't give. A band of steel lines his insides and bile eats at them. Merlin gnaws on his nails, shifts and sighs. Arthur makes a small sign with his head and Merlin stills.

A girl with a large rucksack and ear buds plugged in her ears takes the seat across the aisle from his. She shoulders off the rucksack, places it at her feet. She digs an earmarked copy book and Biro. Tray down, she starts scribbling, her hair veiling her face. She looks like a student, and that eases Merlin's nerves. His heartbeat decelerates, though not by much, and the knots in his muscles ease somewhat.

Treading heavily, a man in a suit, strides in. He has a silver briefcase and an iPhone peeks out of one of his pockets. His shoes are a deep black and shine in the way only leather loafers do.

Businessman, Merlin thinks, well hopefully.

The man stops mid aisle and scans the compartment. His gaze slides right over Merlin, but it doesn't dwell on him. Merlin still goes taut, but then the man huffs and moves towards the end of the carriage, where he sits.

The doors swish closed. A new man appears. He's burly and barrel chested. He's mostly bald with a light beard sprinkling his chin. He swaggers in with legs bent, hands in his pockets. He plods up the aisle looking left and right. He passes several seats, but doesn't take any.

Grabbing at the seat in front of him, Merlin sinks lower and turns his head towards the window. His heart beat spikes at his throat and in his fingertips. He wants to look up, discover if the passing man is someone he’s seen before, one of the killers that got Mordred, but he stays put. He realises he mustn't show the bloke his face. It's nothing, likely nothing, but he shouldn't turn around.

As he leans away from the aisle, Merlin's fingers curl around the base of the backrest.

His tread heavy, the man who just entered clops forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin can see him reach the end of the carriage. He stops by the door to the next, but doesn't step through. He just stands there. Because of their relative positions, Merlin can't hide his face any longer. The man is in front of him. Having turned, he faces the south side of the carriage, Merlin's seat included.

Merlin feels an itch in his limbs. He wants to squirm. He wants to stand up and tear into another carriage. He wants to run. Instead he grits his teeth. His ears whistle. He breathes in and out and stays put.

The man starts on his way back, moving towards Merlin. His clothing rustles when it touches the seats. He thunders forwards, soles squicking. He exits the carriage the way he entered.

Merlin has no idea what to think. There are plenty of free seats around. Why didn't the man take one of them? Why did he go back to his starting point instead of trying the head compartment? There might be a reasonable explanation for that. Maybe the man had clocked another seat he wanted in the carriage he started from. Maybe he was just stretching his legs. There's a chance he was reconnoitring though, looking to find Merlin. And in that case Merlin's done for.

Merlin's still staving off the cold that notion wraps around his heart, when Arthur walks over to Merlin. He stops one seat short of his position, bends over, and starts doing his laces. “Wait here,” he says so low Merlin can barely hear him. “I'm going to check this out.”

With that Arthur picks himself up and leaves the carriage.

 

***** 

Dagr sinks down next to Ebor. “It's him all right.”

“He's in there?” Ebor cants his head at the carriage door.

“Yeah, I think I've already said so once.” Really, Ebor may be good at his computer stuff, but he's not that smart when it comes to practicalities. If Dagr had the patience, he'd teach him. But he doesn't care and won't. “He's got a weird face--” Dagr would have spotted him even if he hadn't studied all the photos Odin supplied him with. “I recognised him straight away.”

“So what now?”

Dagr is about to answer that question, when the blond man from the other compartment walks in. “I've got an idea,” he tells Ebor, and pulls himself up again. He saunters up to Blondie and says, “I know who you are.” He smirks. “I know what you're here for.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Blondie says, trying to move past him.

Dagr broadens his stance, not letting him. “You're the copper,” he says. “You're the one they set on Emrys.”

Blondie stiffens all over and his jaw twitches. “I'm sorry, you have the wrong--”

“Bullshit, mate.” Dagr's not about to let this man wriggle out of the hold he's got on him. “We know who you are. We know Emrys is in there.”

Blondie takes a step back as if to retreat into the other carriage.

Dagr grabs him by the arm and digs his fingers in, feeling muscles and tendons shift under his grip. “Not so fast.” He broadens his smile. “I've an offer you should listen to.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” Blondie frowns and shakes free of the hold Dagr has him in.

Dagr pays no attention to the posturing. He'll have this bloody copper cowering if he wants to, he's certainly not listening to his protestations. Protestations ain't never meant a thing. “Oh you will.” He shows his teeth. “You'll listen. Because it's going to be good for you.”

“We have nothing to say to each other,” Blondie says, lips thinning, whitening from compression.

“Oh, I think we do.” Dagr twists his mouth in as ferocious a grin as he can muster. “I believe we can come to an understanding.”

“I'm leaving.” Blondie turns around.

Dagr speaks the words all the same. He reckons Blondie will make them out just fine, back turned or not. “We can make you rich. If you just drop your guard long enough. You're set for life.”

Blondie's shoulders bunch.

“We're talking about a million quid.” Dagr himself is not being given that, not even approximately. He'll see to it that his agreement with Odin changes, especially if things get ugly here today. He's going to make himself heard, see if he ain't. But he'll have more leverage, more to bargain with, if he convinces the bloody copper first. Not to mention how easy he's going to make it on himself. “Whenever is a bloke like you going to see that much money in one sitting, or ever?”

Blondie's hands form fists.

“Think about it,” Dagr says, laying it on as thick as he can. “You'd be set for life. All you'd have to do is drop your guard.”

With a movement from Blondie, the doors slide open, and he walks through them, heading back to the compartment he came from.

“I'll be waiting here for the answer,” he calls out.

Only for a few minutes, of course. Should Blondie's answer not be forthcoming, Dagr will get in there and revert to his original plan.

**** 

 

Merlin's ears roar, his veins constrict, and his heart feels like it stops mid beat. As if he could stanch the pain, he places a hand on his chest, pressing hard. His legs give and he leans against one of the seats.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, the compartment doors closing behind him. “Merlin, are you alright?”

The ache in his chest as deep and resounding as before, Merlin answers, “I heard what he said,” he whispers. Magic helped with that. “I know what he offered you.”

Arthur freezes and his eyes coruscate with pain. “You can't believe I would do that.”

Merlin doesn't know what to believe. He trusts Arthur with his body and with his instincts. But what if he's wrong? What if he's read all this awry? This is a quandary that leaves him reeling. Ever since this nightmare began he's been wrong footed and out of his depths, not quite himself. “I don't but--” If he'd been less naïve, Mordred'd be alive now. “But how can I tell?” He's not able to sort up from down anymore and those words have shaken him to the core. “I want to trust you, Arthur, I do, but how can I--”

The train rattles, slows, shaking them forward.

Merlin's eyes go wide. “We're not coming into a station, are we?”

Arms out, Arthur widens his stance to stay upright. “No. There's no stop for at least another twenty minutes.” He grinds his teeth.

To the sound of tearing brakes, the train grinds to a halt, the coach shifting under them. Arthur ducks. A whistle tears the air and the door's glass panel shatters, raining on top of them. “They've pulled the emergency brake,” Arthur says, pulling himself off Merlin and crouching low.

“And shot at us,” Merlin says, picking glass shards from his hair. 

Another shot thunders through the air. It flies high, ricocheting off a handle and sparkling a flame. Arthur throws himself on Merlin, flattening him against the carriage floor. Someone shouts in the distance, but Merlin can barely hear it because of the ringing in his ears. His body goes cold and his heart stops in his chest. He plunges into a darkness that envelopes him like treacle. It sends him back into the wrecked car, Mordred lifeless at his side, blood pooling between them, street lights glaring behind the shattered frame of the windscreen.

Merlin's magic flares high within him. It whirls and spins, then coalesces into a white hot ball. It grows and grows till it exceeds the compass of his frame. It fans his body heat and scalds his eyes. He snaps them open and the world glows amber. He shifts from under Arthur and stands. Splaying his hand outwards, he throws his magic at the glass. With a thought from him the glass picks itself from the floor and flies back to its origin point. The pieces fit back into their frame and reconnect, the webbing of cracks smoothing over, the furrow splits disappearing.

Arthur takes his gun out and yells, “Get down, Merlin. The glass alone won't protect you.”

“No, it won't.” Merlin sends his magic out at the door, short-circuits it, then builds a net of power around it, a shimmering veil that floats inwards and outwards. “But a shield will.”

Arthur comes to stand by his side, his body planted slantwise in the space between seats. He aims his weapon at the passageway between carriages. The man on the other side fires a round, but it bounces off Merlin's magic wall.

The girl in their compartment screams.

Merlin turns his head a notch. The girl kneels by the businessman's side. He leans against the opposite coach door, his legs out, his head lolling forwards. A black stain covers the front of his jacket. It fans crimson on the white of his shirt. The girl presses at it with her palm. “Help, do something. Help me, please!”

Arthur doesn't take his eyes off his mark, but there's a tremble in his muscles, and he instinctively angles his body towards the girl.

“I can help.” Maybe this time Merlin can do something to save a life. He couldn't help Mordred, but perhaps this guy is different. “If he's not too far gone, there's a chance I can do something.”

“Is it going to hurt you?” Arthur asks, sweat beading his face as he keeps the Malagant Pharma killer in his sights.

Even if it was, Merlin wouldn't let that stop him. He can't tell Arthur that however. “I can help him, Arthur.”

“Then go.”

Merlin lowers his hand. The shield wobbles as he does. He frowns at it, seals its component parts back together, and knots them tight. When the shield holds, its ley lines slotting together in a pattern that shines like diamond dust, he calls himself satisfied. It will keep. For now.

Pivoting round, he skids towards the back of the carriage. He kneels at the wounded man's side, facing the girl. “You can let go,” he says, displacing her hand and putting his own on the businessman's chest.

As soon as he does, he feels the warmth of the man's blood coat his palm. It's sticky, slippery, full of the heat of life. It’s covering Merlin's hands in a way that terrifies him with the clear notion of failure. His magic dips in him, and memories of Mordred surface.

That day in the car, his magic failed to spark a connection. It encountered nothing but dead matter, ricocheted back at him with the hollow echo of death, spreading black sap inside of him. He falls into that same web now and it inveigles him in its mire, drowns him deep, till his lungs fail to catch breath. He probes against its coils, shakes them, fights them, until he snaps free. He catches a deep breath. When he focuses again, he's in the train carriage, his hands glowing, the flow of blood from the man's wound diminishing, its margins slowly closing.

Lying heavy on his upper lip and on his eyelids, sweat pools on Merlin's face. His heart races, skips a few beats even as his rescuee's pulse steadies. Merlin's thoughts scatter, his body floats.

A bullet whistles past him.

“Merlin,” Arthur shouts, “how long can you keep the shield up?”

Magic issues out of Merlin in clouds and vapours that blanket his body. Funnels of it travel into the wounded man, penetrating under his skin, twining with the man's own essence. The rest of it bolsters the door, knits the shield together, but fewer and fewer tendrils are going into it. Merlin has no idea how long he can maintain the protection. “How long till the police come?”

“He must have pulled the emergency brake.” Arthur maintains his focus on the door. “Police usually react in five minutes.”

Five minutes, Merlin isn't sure he's got as long as that. He grits his teeth though and pours himself into the wounded man. With his magic he maps his insides. He finds the frayed veins, the ruptured tendons, the pools of blood gathering between tissues. He repairs the blood vessels, reconstructs snapped fibres, dries the blood. The bullet he melts.

He's almost done, when his heart skips several beats and cold wraps his brain. The floor rushes up at him and something hits his head hard.

When his sight focuses again, he sees a swath of seat and a section of carpet. He blinks, splays a hand on the floor and levers himself up. He brushes at the blood issuing from his nose and looks in the direction of his shield.

It’s faltering. His magic sparks, but doesn't light, doesn't grow into a full flame. The shield drops.

Bullets shatter the glass between the cars. Arthur ducks. Blood copiously wets his shirt at the shoulder.

At the sight of it Merlin rushes towards him.

Arthur shouts, “Don't. Head into the other carriage! The other carriage, Merlin.”

The Malagant Pharma hitman kicks at the door. It doesn't give. Something's jammed it.

Ignoring Arthur's furious gesturing, Merlin doesn't fall back. “Arthur, I can heal you.”

“No, you can't-” Arthur thumbs at the blood on Merlin's face. “You're exhausted.”

Merlin feels way too light, brittle, but there's no way he's letting Arthur die. He touches his hand to his shoulder, takes a chunk of magic from the core of him and pushes it outwards at Arthur. His legs are cut from under him, and his nose bleeds freely, but Arthur's wound stops spurting blood. It doesn't close entirely though.

Under the hit man’s kicks, the door gives.

Arthur grabs Merlin by the neck and hauls him deeper into the carriage. Then he whirls on his feet and fires at the killer, who ducks. On his arm a wound opens, but he ploughs forward.

Without taking aim, Arthur shoots, but the gun clicks emptily. Arthur shouts, “Run, Merlin, run.”

Arthur engages the hit man. With a kick he gets the man to drop his gun, knocking him in the face simultaneously. The man spits blood from his mouth, growls at Arthur, comes at him. As he moves in close, Arthur stamps on his chest. Next, he delivers a punch to the man’s jaw, knocking him backwards.

“Go, Merlin, go!” Arthur shouts.

Merlin's feet are glued to the spot. He can't move, not without knowing what happens to Arthur.

From his position on the floor, the hitman reaches a hand out for the gun.

With his magic Merlin sends it skittering away. The effort leaves him panting, but the gun is out of the way.

With the firearm not in play, Arthur throws himself at the assassin, but the man repulses him with a kick. Arthur grunts, but darts forward again, hauling his adversary to his feet by the lapels. Knee bent, the man kicks upwards, punching deeply into Arthur's stomach. Protecting his middle, Arthur coughs. The hit man punches low, into the soft flesh of Arthur's lower belly, then hits at his elbow. Sweeping low, the man initiates a second attack. Arthur spins inside the man's reach and chops him in the biceps. The hit man head butts him. A crack sounds. Head down, the hit man wrestles Arthur, till he floors him and climbs on top. His hands around Arthur's throat, his thumb digging into his gullet, the man has Arthur in a white knuckled grip. Arthur's hands clamp around the man's wrists. Face reddening, he tries to force him off, but the man is strong and determined and, in spite of all his bucking, Arthur can't shuffle him off.

When the assassin starts hitting Arthur's head on the carriage floor, Merlin's magic takes over. It pours out of him in rays like sunshine, which blind him, make his eyes well. The magic hauls the hit man right off Arthur and traps him in its web. It lifts him high till his head grazes the ceiling. Its beams wrap around him in coils of gold, which Merlin snaps tight around him.

The effort makes Merlin totter on his feet, scoops hollows out of him, which get full of black matter. The oily inkiness of it drowns him, but Merlin tamps it down. He uses the bright light at the core of his being and expels it all outwards. This luminescent mass pummels the assassin and sends him flying across the carriage. He hits the door with a sickening thud, a crunch of bones, then bounces off it and lands belly first along the length of two bottom row seat. He twitches, gurgles, then stills.

Arthur is picking himself up off the floor and Merlin's about to crash down on his knees, when a second man appears in the space between their carriage and the next. He's short and round, with a nondescript face and a goatee silvering at its centre. For a moment his presence doesn't compute for Merlin. The man lifts his right arm. A gun is in his hand, big, with a metal shine to it, and a silencer applied to its muzzle. The man shifts his weight and pulls the trigger.

Arthur's shout gets muffled by the pain that blisters through Merlin. It burns to such a pitch Merlin goes to his knees. He teeters there, his hearing going. His vision fading, everything gets dark, tar black.

**** 

 

Blackfriars Crown Court is a two story building with an abutting round colonnade that serves as an entrance and modern windows facing the street. Standing tall with their hands clasped, guarding the main door, policemen look to the road. Crush barriers line the street. Behind them rows of journalists push at each other as they jockey for better positions. They hold their cameras at the ready, pointing them towards the bulk of the building. Facing around so that the mass of it is in the shot, reporters look into their Steadicams, mics in their hands, their mouths moving quickly as they speak for their audiences at home.

The black car has to stop to avoid the crowds.

Merlin breathes in and out, but that just makes his shoulder hurt more. He pats his pocket with his good hand without moving his sling about. His fingers close around the bottle, which he tries to uncap with his teeth.

“Give,” Arthur says, showing his palm.

Merlin drops the container in Arthur's hand. “Thanks.”

Arthur opens the bottle and hands it back to Merlin. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” After what's happened on that train Merlin's more sure than he ever was. Some things are not worth risking life and limb for, he stands by that. But a line has been crossed and too many sacrifices have been made for the people responsible to not be called to task, for them not to be punished for their deeds. “Yes, I'm going in.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says.

Merlin doesn't know whether Arthur wants him to rethink things or not. As a policeman he should exhort him to offer his testimony. As his friend, perhaps he means to advice against it. Throughout the ordeal Merlin has gained some knowledge of himself and he suspects he won't make it into the courtroom if he thinks too hard about his role in the trial to come. “I'm fine.”

“Merlin, you're here against doctor's orders. You should still be in hospital.” Arthur cranks up an eyebrow at him.

“I couldn't risk not making it as a witness.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, exhaling a long sigh, “the judge will postpone the hearing. Just let me go in and say you can't make it after all.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, the more time passes, the more the odds of them getting to me get higher.”

Arthur looks at him with pain in his eyes. He winces, gestures towards his shoulder. “I know I haven't done a very good job protecting you, but I will do better. You'll have entire squads of agents shielding you.”

Merlin lets out a breath. “You did everything you could.” Arthur was a hero through and through. “You took a beating too.” Merlin wishes he could have healed him better. His magic though is not up to par at the moment. “Don't blame yourself.”

“I should have accounted for the other guy.” Arthur balls his fists. “I should have been prepared. If I had, nothing would have happened to--”

“You were busy enough with that hitman,” Merlin says. “This was not your fault.”

“Still--”

“No, you did everything you could.” Merlin curls his lips in a smile. Because of the throbbing pain in his shoulder, it's somewhat of an effort, but he makes himself do it because Arthur needs it. He must stop thinking he's responsible for everything. He almost died too and Merlin wants him to see that he's grateful, that he understands how much Arthur put on the line for him. “I've got to face the music now.”

Merlin clicks the door open and takes a big breath. Flashes go off and nearly blind him. Reporters make for the car. The boldest climb the crush barriers and approach him. Arthur appears at his side and fends them off with an arm. “Make way,” he says. “Police, make way.”

One of the journalists, waves her mic over Arthur's head and shouts, “Mr Emrys, is it true that you just escaped an attempt on your life?”

“Mr Emrys is due into the courtroom,” Arthur says, making way so Merlin can take small steps towards the entrance. “He can't comment now.”

A tall, wide man plants himself before Merlin and says, “Come on, you're a colleague, give us the scoop.”

Heart in his throat, Merlin swallows, keeps his head down and lets Arthur guide him onwards.

Journalists crowd closer, shouting questions. Some of them are simple. Some are loaded. A few imply he's got something to hide or that he got involved in the Malagant Pharma trial because he's a crook himself. Several allude to Mordred's death. A precious few mention his mentor, Aglain. Merlin doesn't answer any of the questions. He and Arthur soldier on towards the entrance.

They move slowly. When they get to the set of barriers isolating the entrance, the court guards pull back the chains and let them through. Shouts follow Merlin inside. The clicks of cameras and the well of questions only die down when he makes it into the lift.

The courtroom is small, panelled in wood, vastly functional. A large raised bench is situated at the front of the room opposite the entrance. The judge, in wig and gown, wearing medals, sits behind it. On one side, separated by a long wooden partition, are the members of the jury. Directly opposite stand two sets of tables made of pale ash. Bewigged lawyers face each other. Merlin doesn't know either of them. He recognises Gildas Odin though. His back is straight, his suit, a sober grey, perfectly tailored to show off his frame, is free of wrinkles. He wears a gold watch that catches the light when he shifts his hands into cupping his knee. Exuding ease, he exchanges a smile with his defence counsel.

At the sight Merlin's ears ring.

Arthur murmurs in his ears. “Don't even consider him.”

Merlin wants to say that he can't stop considering him, that he just keeps wondering how a man like that can go ahead with his life when he's been the cause of so much pain and suffering. He needs the world to stop and mourn, for consequences to have weight. He wishes for some sort of giant cosmic sign that will match the indignation burning under his skin. But there are none. Odin isn't singled out as a culprit. Merlin finds a seat in a back bench, isolated from the main room by a glass partition, Arthur a warm and steady presence at his side.

By the time they call Merlin to the witness stand his hands are wholly damp and he has half chewed the inside of his cheek. The copper taste on his tongue tells him he's made himself bleed. Never mind that. He's here for a reason. He confirms his identity and swears to tell the truth.

The Queen’s Counsel stands up and asks, “Mr Emrys, can you tell us what you do?”

“I am--” Merlin starts, then pricks at his lip with his tooth. “I was a journalist at the Daily Beacon. I worked under Gaius Leckarz, the head editor of our investigative team.”

The QC nods expansively. “Tell us, Mr Emrys, how did you get involved in the case concerning the defendant's company?”

Merlin licks his lips. He has his story down. Words should be his gift. But even so they don't come easily at all. Feelings shake him – anger gnaws at his insides, sadness wells deep within him – but clarity eludes him “Mr Mordred Wallingford came to our paper saying he had discovered some irregularities in a pharmaceuticals test trial.”

“What kind of irregularities?” the QC asks, sweeping a glance at Odin in the dock.

“He explained to us that the results weren't so positive as Malagant Pharma made out to be.” Merlin's aware he's got to unveil his testimony block by block so that Odin's culpability shines through. Yesterday, he couldn't exactly be briefed, not drugged to the gills as he was. Hospitals' rules aren't so easily broken. He did get a cursory induction in what he ought to say this morning via phone. “In fact their drug, Lethine, appeared to have harmed the testers who took it.”

The Defence Counsel, a relatively young man with dark eyebrows, rises from his seat. “Your honour this is pure speculation on the witness’ part.”

The Judge looks to the QC with a raised eyebrow.

The QC picks up the challenge by saying, “Mr Emrys obtained a hard drive containing proof of what he's saying. The drive in question was entrusted to the police and is archived as evidence as item 35b. The witness is, in short, my lord, talking about his direct knowledge of the facts.”

“Mr Emrys may proceed,” the Judge says, with a sound of his gavel.

Merlin wrings his hands and says, “I was tasked with finding proof of Mordred's words. Which I ended up doing.” Merlin looks to the Judge. “I got myself enrolled in the trial programme.” Merlin is sure the Defence Counsel will harass him about the false credentials he used to get into it. But it's not his turn yet and Merlin wants to nail Odin with the truth of it all. “I had access to Malagant Pharma's data strings in regards to the trials Mordred was talking about.” Merlin describes how he secured the data on the flash drive.

“What happened then?” the QC asks. His tone is pointed, his head canted back, his hand on his heart. “Can you tell us what happened after you got this proof of Malagant Pharma's tampering with the trial results?”

“I mistakenly activated an alarm.” Merlin wants to make a point of it, establish the causality of events, highlight why Mordred died. “It sounded all over.”

“So Malagant Pharma security knew about your breach?” The QC pats his cravat.

The Defence Counsel puts both hands up in the air. “My esteemed colleague is calling for speculation, My Lord.”

The Judge tells Merlin, “In relying your testimony you will make no assumption as to other's people level of knowledge of the situation. You will recount the facts as you know them.”

Merlin nods.

All eyes switch to him. Under his collar Merlin starts sweating. With only one useful hand, he awkwardly loosens his tie, undoes the top button. Even so, Merlin's mouth dries, his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and his pulse picks up. He asks, “May I have a glass of water?”

The Judge nods to his staff, who speaks a few words into the ear of a clerk. The person tiptoes out of the room.

In the witness box Merlin bakes. He leans against the partition, wipes sweat from his forehead and licks his lips to moisten them. When a different clerk comes in with a tray on which sit a decanter and a clear glass of water, Merlin sighs in relief. The clerk coasts the dock, walks straight past it, and, with a tight face, deposits her burden on the side of witness box's top rail. The clerk retreats without lifting her eyes from the tray.

With trembling hands, Merlin lifts the glass. He brings it to his lips.

Arthur crashes through the doors that circumscribe the visitor area, vaults over a row of chairs placed in the back of the courtroom, and shouts, “Don't drink!”

Merlin looks up from the rim of the glass, blinks, lowers it. “What?”

“Don't drink it,” Arthur says, waving his hands in the air. “It's poisoned, don't drink it!”

Merlin's fingers go nerveless and the glass tumbles over the edge of the witness box. When the glass shatters the contents drop on the floor and start bubbling.

A collective gasp takes the audience and all gazes turn to Odin in the dock. The Judge restores orders with a knock of the gavel.

“No one will touch either the glass or the spilled contents,” the Judge says, sending the wet patch on the floor a worried glance. “This session is adjourned.”

A burst of activity begins once the judge has left the courtroom. Arthur makes his way to where Merlin still sits in shock. Several bailiffs scramble to find the clerk who brought Merlin the tainted water. The court observers, including some members of the press, talk to each other with frantic voices, causing a deafening roar of noise in the cavernous room. Merlin hears the buzz, but understands no words. Leading Merlin to an antechamber off the courtroom, Arthur guides him into a chair. Merlin vaguely hears Arthur having a hushed conversation at the door, and watches him accept bottled water from a uniformed policeman a few minutes later. Arthur carries the water over to Merlin, twisting off the cap before he hands it to him. They share a long look, and Merlin hopes his gratitude shines through his eyes. Seeming to understand, Arthur nods and then sits in silent vigil at Merlin’s side.

Later, when forensics have gathered all possible data from the spillage, the session continues in a different courtroom. The air is much more tense. The Defence Counsel wears a frown that seems tattooed on his brow. The members of the jury look with panic one to the other. Even the stenographers pause, tension written in their poses, before they set out to transcribe the goings on.

The QC calls Merlin back to the witness box and the Judge reminds him that he's still under oath. When Merlin says that he understands that, the QC starts questioning again. “Before we were interrupted,” he says, “you were describing the incident that led to Mordred Wallingford's death.”

“Yes, I was,” Merlin says. “I procured the data and together with Mordred Wallingford I left Malagant Pharma London’s headquarters.”

“What happened next?”

Merlin understands he must leave his mark now, that he must impress the jury with the violence of what happened and do his best to link it to Odin. “We got into a car with the intention of delivering proof of what I'd learned to the police.”

“Were you able to, Mr Emrys?” the QC looks first to the jury then to Merlin.

“Not directly,” Merlin says. “Mordred and I were on the road, when I noticed we were being followed.”

“You were followed right after the alarm sounded at Malagant Pharma?” the QC asks, while knowing quite well what the answer's going to be. “Right out of its gates?”

“Yes.” Merlin inclines his head, makes it a sharp, decisive gesture, one that brooks no arguments. “The car tailing us overtook us and bumped us off the road and against the bridge's rail.”

“Mr Emrys, could you describe what happened after your vehicle was driven off the road?”

“Your honour,” the Defence Counsel speaks into his microphone. “My learned colleague is leading the witness. His choice of words is tendentious and biased.”

“The question will stand.” The Judge turns to Merlin. “You may answer.”

“Three men got out of the car that had been following us.” Merlin focuses on the jury then, the faces of its members. He tries not to see the events of that night in his mind's eye. In spite of this some memories leak through and his voice breaks, but he speaks with as much level conviction as he can muster. “They approached the car and shot at us. They killed Mordred and tried to get to me too. I escaped them by diving into the Thames.”

“And do you think their motive for following you was connected to your earlier actions at Malagant Pharma?” the QC rubs the side of his mouth with his thumb as if to erase the smile that's curving his lips.

“Absolutely,” Merlin says, looking the QC dead in the eye. “I'd just found data incriminating Malagant Pharma for fraud on a massive scale as well as negligent homicide. I believe those thugs were attempting to retrieve it while erasing witnesses.”

“So is it possible that Mordred Wallingford's killers were hired by Malagant Pharma and by extension its CEO Gildas Odin?”

Before Merlin can answer the Defence Counsel intervenes. “Objection! The witness can't prove that! This is rampant speculation.”

“Your Honour,” The QC wears his self-assured smile still. “I only asked for the witness' opinion.”

“I'll concede to the defence.” The Judge waves at the dock. “Reformulate.”

The QC turns to Merlin. “Mr Emrys, was Mordred Wallingford killed right after you both left Malagant Pharma Headquarters and once you'd come in possession of proof incriminating its CEO of criminal acts?”

“Yes,” Merlin answers, relief washing over him as he watches the QC relax. “That's what happened.”

The QC whirls round, eyes alight, chest thrust out. To the Defence Counsel he says, “Your witness.”

 

******

 

“Malagant Pharma CEO and Coalition Against Magic group sympathiser Gildas Odin was sentenced Thursday by his Lordship, Judge Sebastian Eschenback of the Blackfriars criminal court to 30 years imprisonment,” Gwaine reads aloud. “Odin's furthermore due to pay a £12 million fine in addition to forfeiting £5.3 million in legal expenses.” His eyes fall to Merlin as he intones the next words. “His reckoning comes shortly after that of killers for hire Ed Dagr and Frederick Ebor, who were found guilty of the murder of Mordred Wallingford, and the attempted murder of Merlin Emrys and Detective Inspector Arthur Pendragon. Dagr and Ebor were given 25 and 15 years behind bars respectively.”

As he listens to Gwaine's words, Merlin sucks in a big gulp of air and downs the champagne in the plastic cup.

Ignoring the buzz of voices in the newsroom, Gwaine clears his throat and continues reading: “Defence Counsel Andred Pierce, QEB, has argued that his tycoon client has not been proven to be connected to the acts committed by Dagr and Ebor and that his only offences aren't criminal in nature, but rather fiscal and administrative, a violation of regulation put in place by extra national institutions.”

Gwaine has a facility for recitation. He knows how to modulate his voice, how to inflect it so that his listeners will hang from his every word. “Queen's Counsel Monmouth maintains that justice was served and that the proceedings should stand as proof of the justiciary's swiftness in punishing corrupt individuals who would rig the rules pertaining to pharmaceutical distribution.”

Gwaine lowers his paper and continues reciting by heart. “While the case has opened a nationwide debate regarding corporations' dark powers, other issues have remained largely unspoken of, like the rights of magical practitioners and the ease with which they've time and again been put to the side. Even in the wake of the Malagant Pharma scandal, nothing has, in fact, been done to prevent crimes such as those it perpetrated from being carried out again.” He turns on the desk he's standing on so he's angled himself towards Merlin.

Gwaine bows his head as he prepares to say the rest. But when he does, his voice booms out of his chest.

“As a result, we at the Daily Beacon, colleagues of Merlin Emrys, the dedicated reporter who unearthed the scandal, suffered bodily injuries and multiple attempts on his life, call ourselves only partly satisfied. Despite the fact that those responsible for the death of whistle-blower Mordred Wallingford have been punished, not enough has been done.” Gwaine's shoulders bunch up. “Awareness hasn't been raised as to the position of magic people in our society. The discrimination they face hasn't been made the object of strict scrutiny. The vulnerabilities they are prone to because of that discrimination haven't been unveiled. At the heart of this case lie many more issues that need to be tackled one by one.”

Gwaine's tone gentles and the words take on the tone of a promise. “At the Beacon we propose to do just that. We will not stop investigating governmental or corporate abuse. We will not stop listening to the voices of those society has made weak. We won't stop digging for the truth. In short, we shall not cease.”

The newsroom bursts into applause. Gwaine bows left, right, and centre, with one arm holding his middle and the other behind his back. The clapping hasn't yet died down, when he jumps off the table and strides over to Merlin. He pulls him into an embrace and claps him hard on the back. “I'm glad you're back, mate.”

Merlin does his best not to wince. Though he's on the mend, his collar bone was shattered by the bullet and his shoulder's still as tender as fuck. “Pending Gaius' okay of my reinstatement,” Merlin says, not letting go of the one-armed embrace he holds Gwaine in either. It buoys him, gives him substance, makes him dream that nothing has changed much. That's not exactly true, but at least Gwaine's got his back. “Not a done deal.”

“Are you joking?” Gwaine puts some distance between them to look him in the eye. “Gaius thinks you're a bloody hero.”

“He’s biased.” Merlin thinks Gaius feels guilty for assigning him the story in the first place.

“The nation thinks you a hero.” There's a spark of pride in Gwaine's eyes.

“The half that doesn't hate me for coming clear about my magic, you mean.” Merlin shrugs and pain burns clear across his shoulder. No matter how many times he tells himself not to do it, he forgets. “The other half would see me drawn and quartered.”

“And that's why you must speak out,” Gwaine says. “That's why you've got to come back and write.”

Merlin's about to answer, when he notices Arthur standing in the newsroom's doorway. He leans against the lintel, his arms crossed, his gaze pointing downwards, his lips pressed together. To Gwaine, Merlin says, “Can you wait a moment?”

Gwaine's shoulders drop and he sighs. He botches a smile that lists on one side and says, “Yes, of course.”

Merlin bypasses those ex-colleagues who want to stop him for a word, promising he will get back to them, and makes a beeline for Arthur. “Hey,” he says, “you've come.”

“I wanted to see if you were alright.”

Merlin isn't sure he is yet. The pieces of him that scattered during the Malagant Pharma ordeal must be glued back together. “I'm fine.”

“You're going back,” Arthur says, spearing a glance at the teeming newsroom behind them.

“I don't know yet.” Merlin feels he has even more of a task. Now that his story is no longer confidential, he wants to publish it, use it as a springboard to plead for his own kind. “But I am going to write something. I just don't know whether that'll be a column or a book or what.”

“I'm glad you are,” Arthur says, dipping his head. He shifts and his clothes rustle. He sighs. “You should.”

“I'm going to make a mission of it.” Merlin's not going to relent. If Merlin had a vocation before Mordred, now he has a cause. “I plan to make my voice heard. I'm going to change things.”

“I'm sure you will.” Arthur's head comes up and he tilts it as his gaze softens on Merlin. “You're destined for great things.”

“I wouldn't be here, if not for you,” Merlin says, without knowing how to convey how much and how strongly he feels about this. “Thank you, Arthur, I--”

“You don't have to thank me.” Arthur retreats a step, face falling. “I only did my job.”

“Not true.”

“No, you're right.” Arthur looks away. “I broke the rules. I made it personal. I went where I shouldn't have and I'm sorry I did.”

The words give rise to a stabbing sensation behind Merlin's breastbone, a strangling of his heart. “Arthur--” For some stupid reason Merlin can't get the words out of his throat. “Arthur, I--”

“I should wish you good luck.” Arthur frowns as if he's not sure those are the right words. “I should--”

Arthur's already retreating and Merlin knows he should speak out or lose him. At the idea his heart downright stops. “No. Please, don't do that.”

Arthur freezes, head up, eyes wide. “What, what do you mean?”

“I hope you don't just wish me good luck and walk away.” Fear of loss knocks Merlin's breath out of his lungs. “I mean I guess you'll do that, if you don't feel anything for me. But if it's because of what I said on that train-- If it's because I doubted you for a moment, you have to know that I was scared and I wasn't thinking straight.” Merlin is finding his footing again, but he's aware it's going to be a slow process. “I trust you. I do. With my life, with my future, with everything really.” If he didn't, he wouldn't be putting his heart on the line now. “I like you.” He huffs, a smile twisting his lips. “Hell, I do a lot more than that though it's not prudent to say.” He supposes people would call him crazy if he hurried to use big words right now. If he said he loved Arthur, if he said that he made Merlin's heart speed up, everyone'd say it's because of what he went through. He can be patient and show that by word and deed instead. “So I'm not going to say the words.” He wants to, God how he does, but he won't do himself any favour if he lets them out. “But I'm going to--” God, this feels like falling. “I'm going to ask you to give me a chance, to see if I can show you, see if we can work it out together.”

“You want to?” Arthur makes a dazed face. “Are you sure?”

“Would I be asking if I wasn't?”

Arthur breathes in, gaze full of wariness, his body taut as if ready for a fight. “I thought you'd go back to your life now that everything is back to normal.”

“My life's changed.” There's no going back to what it was, not that Merlin'd want it to. “You're in it now. Of course it's up to you if you want to continue being a part of it, but I would love for you to just stay.”

“What about Gwaine?” Arthur's gaze slides over to him. “I thought you wanted to be with him?”

Merlin's eyes widens then he understands. “We're friends, good friends, and I missed him, was worried about him, but we're not...” This is hard to define without dismissing Gwaine. “I'm not in love with him.”

“I thought...” Arthur scratches at the side of his face with his thumb. His lips purse and lines form around them. “When you called him, and then I saw you reading that piece of his, I thought--”

“That I missed home and my job badly?” Merlin says. “That I missed my friend and felt sorry for myself?”

“And that's all it was?”

“We’re friends,” Merlin says. “That's all it is.”

Arthur nods but doesn't say anything.

“Are you...” Merlin's a stringer of words by profession but he can't summon any now that hope seeps out of his chest and floods his system, making him giddy and breathless and speechless. Speaking now is one of the hardest things Merlin's ever done. It leaves him raw, with little defence against hurt. “Will you stay?”

Arthur dives forward. With both of his palms he cups Merlin's face. He presses their lips together burningly softly, rubbing one set against the other, tugging Merlin's between his, pulling and biting. When Merlin gasps at the sheer lashing of pleasure, he slips his tongue in and meshes them into a deep kiss that's all softness. It tastes of devotion, but also of the kind of hunger that comes at the end of a fast; it has a breath-taking franticness to it they both delve in wholesale.

When they part, their breath comes short.

Leaning his forehead against Arthur's, Merlin asks, “Does this mean you're giving me a chance?”

“This means,” Arthur says, his lashes fanning down as his gaze latches onto Merlin's mouth. “This means that I'm in.”

They lean in again but before they can kiss once more the newsroom thunders with clapping.

 

The End


End file.
